Until We Fall
by Kyra4
Summary: Jane & Gunther find themselves plunged into a situation so horrific it will test the very limits of their endurance- and of their relationship with one another. "Gunther's voice was inflectionless; completely flat, and dead with hate. 'I am going to kill you,' he said, speaking slowly and enunciating each word very clearly. 'I am going to kill you for this.'" Sequel to Mistakes.
1. Chapter 1

"Well!? Do… you yield?"

"You would… like… _that_ , I suppose!"

"I _will_ like it, when… it happens! Come Jane, it… is inevitable! Submit!"

"I… think… _NOT!_ "

They had been going back and forth like this, bantering as they sparred, for the better part of half an hour. Their words were punctuated by the thuds of their staves impacting each other – for those were the weapons they were currently practicing with.

Across the courtyard, Rake and Pepper's twins Ada and Alain, now four years old, tumbled about in imitation, using heavily padded miniature staves that Smithy had crafted especially for them.

Pepper often remarked, with a mixture of pride and deep anxiety, that Kippernium's "tradition" of male/female knight teams would clearly be carried forth into the new generation.

As for Pepper herself, she was twenty-two years old now, happily-married mother to the twins and to 2-year-old Petal, with yet another on the way.

Jane, although nearly identical in age to Pepper, and just as happily married, was not yet a mother – and had no burning desire to be, either; not in the immediate future, at any rate.

She and Gunther had wed shortly after she'd recovered from "the arrow incident" – a brush with death that, while horrifying beyond belief, had served as an excellent catalyst for both of them to finally embrace just how much they meant to each other.

In the time since, they'd been busy keeping the peace, serving as envoys of the king, designing and overseeing some modest improvements to the castle's defensive infrastructure, and overall just continuing to grow into their roles as knights of the realm.

It had been a busy, productive and happy time.

And then the girl stumbled into the courtyard.

And in just a moment's time, just a _heartbeat's_ time really, everything went to hell.

* * *

(A/N: I didn't expect to begin the continuation this soon, but as I have said before, this story is burning a hole in me! The first part wanted to be told in the worst way, and I guess this part does too. More trouble afoot for our heroes - this is my first stab at a fic where Jane and Gunther are already "together" right from the start; where they are both partners in knighthood, and spouses. It's definitely a different dynamic, and and it's going to be an interesting ride - and a very bumpy one! I don't know what my timeframe will be for updates; probably not as rapid as it was with Mistakes, although who knows? Buckle up, my hearties - here goes!)


	2. Chapter 2

(A/N: Here's me not caring about football - I'd much rather update my story, lol!)

* * *

Jane saw her first and realized immediately that something was very wrong. She stopped mid-spar, eyes riveted on the new arrival, which caused Gunther to land a bruising blow on her side that almost drove her to her knees.

" _Jane!_ " he cried, horror-struck, instantly dropping his practice weapon and moving to catch her. "I am so sorry, my God, _why_ did you –"

But she didn't even look at him – and though she did drop her own stave and press one arm immediately, unconsciously, to the place where he'd struck her, she didn't fall either. She was already moving toward the stranger who'd just staggered into view, breaking into a run when the girl swayed dangerously on her feet and it became apparent that she was literally on the verge of collapse.

Jane reached her just in time to catch her as she fell, and she sank to her knees with the girl clasped in her arms, easing her to the ground.

"Gunther!" she shouted, frantic, but there was no need; he was already right beside her, swearing under his breath as he slipped his own arms under the girl, taking some of her weight from Jane.

Jane, for her part, shifted into a sitting position so that the girl's head ended up resting in her lap. Her side ached fiercely where Gunther's blow had landed, but she was barely conscious of it at the moment. All of her attention was focused on the young woman who had appeared as if from nowhere, and now was barely conscious _period_.

She looked to be perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, and based on her attire Jane guessed her a peasant girl from one of Kippernium's outlying villages. Her clothing was functional with a bare minimum of embellishment; but although it was plain, it was well-made.

The garments had also been neatly and skillfully mended in a couple of places. It was clear that a good deal of care and pride had gone into their maintenance, as well as their manufacture. They were dirty now, though. Streaked with grime and damp with perspiration.

Her hair was damp too; stringy and pasted to her forehead and neck in dark tendrils. Her skin was pale and clammy, two bright and hectic fever spots burning high on her cheeks.

Gunther, recognizing those splotches of color for what they were, pressed the back of one hand to her forehead, gauging her temperature. "She is burning up," he confirmed, grimly. "Dear God, she is on fire."

Her fever-bright eyes blinked open then, and they were a startling azure-blue, striking against her dark hair. But they were dazed with pain and shock, those otherwise almost-too-lovely eyes.

"This… is… th'castle?" Her voice was a dry, raspy whisper. "The king… luh… lives here?"

"Yes," Jane said, managing to sound calm and collected though in truth, she was very badly rattled. "This is the castle. Where have you come from? How –"

"Have… message," the girl interrupted. "For the king. Have to… have to… deliver. He said… he said you would help me… after I…"

"Who said?" Jane asked, just as Gunther demanded, "what message?" The curtness of his voice and the tension in his eyes and body clearly indicated that he expected nothing good from this.

And he was right.

"I can… can… not… I…" she dragged in a hitching, shuddery breath. "Bodice," she whispered then. "In my… bodice. For safekeeping. Reach in."

Jane's eyes flashed up to meet Gunther's, both of them surprised anew by this request. She saw the young twins standing right behind him – she hadn't been aware of their approach.

"Ada, Alain," she said, "go and fetch some help. Your parents, Smithy, Sir Theodore – whoever you can find, bring them here. Go on now, quickly."

As the children raced away, her eyes once again locked with her husband's. "I think _you_ had better handle the… retrieval," he said, one eyebrow quirked despite everything.

Jane swallowed hard. Nothing about this situation was good, and she had a strong premonition that things would only get worse – a cold little seed of foreboding deep in her gut as she slipped a hand carefully down between the girl's small breasts, questing for whatever this mysterious "message" might be.

Nothing could have prepared her for the shock she received a moment later, though, when her hand closed around an object that was long, slender and hard. Though it was wrapped in a rag, she knew, even as she drew it out, what it was.

An arrow.


	3. Chapter 3

The seed of foreboding within her suddenly blossomed large.

And still she didn't fully understand, until she flipped a corner of the rag back so that she could actually see the arrow within.

And she froze, absolutely froze, finding herself unable even to breathe.

Because she knew this arrow. She'd seen it before. She'd been pierced by it, had nearly _died_ by it.

Or at least, by an identical one. Identical even down to the bloodstained tip. Suddenly the girl's fever-state made perfect sense. Somewhere on her body was a wound – quite possibly a superficial wound, maybe no more than a scratch.

But a fatal wound nevertheless.

The ground beneath her seemed to give a slow and sickening lurch to one side. She still had not drawn breath.

She raised her eyes back to Gunther; wide, shocked green eyes that were incredibly vulnerable in that moment.

For just a heartbeat's worth of time, his eyes were just as shocked and wounded. Then they narrowed to flint-grey slits, and his jawline hardened. He understood too, but while Jane still hadn't emerged from her shock, he had already moved on to utter, white-hot fury.

His voice was quiet, but thrumming with intensity as he extended his hand and said, "give it here. And breathe. Jane, _breathe_."

She put the arrow in his outstretched hand, carefully, not allowing the arrowhead to get anywhere near his unprotected skin, feeling as if she were moving in a dream.

No, a nightmare.

And _still_ she had not drawn breath. Her vision actually started to darken a little around the edges.

" _Jane!_ " Gunther's voice was suddenly as sharp as a whip-crack. "Jane, damnit, _breathe!_ "

She dragged in a hitching breath and color flooded her surroundings again. For a few seconds everything seemed to tilt to the _other_ side – but then the world righted itself. More or less.

Gunther, meanwhile, snapped the arrowhead off the shaft and dropped it to the ground. He then covered the end of the shaft – which Jane could see was hollow – with his thumb, and gave it an experimental shake. Jane had a sudden flash of memory – she'd seen him do this before. Her recollections of her own poison-induced illness were vague and fractured, but… she had definitely seen him do this before. An awful sense of déjà vu engulfed her; it made the whole situation even more surreal.

Her husband broke her out of her reverie by swearing explosively. She had to blink a couple of times in order to focus on him properly again. He had removed the tip of his thumb from the end of the arrow's shaft and was staring at it. He'd gone deathly pale. Jane couldn't fathom what he was so upset about.

He covered the end of the shaft with his thumb again; shook it some more. Pulled his thumb away and _stared_ at it again; rubbed his forefinger against it and then stared at _that_.

He looked back up at Jane just as she'd been about to ask him what in the hell he was _doing;_ the expression on his face stopped the words in her throat.

"It is not there," he said, his voice terrible in its flatness. "The antidote, it is supposed to be inside the hollow shaft, that is where it was when… when _you_ …" he broke off, swallowed hard, shook his head.

Suddenly everything clicked into place in Jane's mind. The antidote. Inside the shaft of the arrow, right. She'd _known_ that, but she'd forgotten it. She had actually repressed a great many details of that particular ordeal – she hadn't ever wanted to think about it again, and hadn't thought she'd ever _need_ to.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

Gunther looked almost as distraught as she felt. "Without the antidote, there is no way to help her, no way to…" he had dropped his eyes back to girl as he spoke, to the mysterious girl, the stranger.

A stranger to them, yes, but she had come from _somewhere_. Somewhere within their kingdom, within the borders _they_ were meant to protect. They didn't even know her name, but _someone_ cared about this girl; her well-made and lovingly mended clothing attested to that. She was surely someone's daughter, someone's sister, maybe someone's sweetheart too.

Gunther trailed off and Jane followed his gaze. "Oh God," she whispered, in a hoarse, choked little voice.

The girl's remarkable blue eyes were staring fixedly, sightlessly up at the sky. Sometime during Jane and Gunther's exchange, she had quietly died.


	4. Chapter 4

"Gunther? _Gunther_. I would like a closer look at that, if I may."

Jane blinked, willing herself out of the daze she'd fallen into.

Sir Theodore had his hand extended toward Gunther. The arrow, Jane realized; he wanted to examine the arrow.

Gunther realized it too, although his delay was even longer than Jane's. He gave his head a little shake as if to clear it, then focused his eyes, apparently with some difficulty, on the headless arrow-shaft still clutched in his hand.

Several of the castle's residents had arrived on the run just seconds after the girl had died, summoned by Ada and Alain. Rake and Pepper had dashed up first, followed by Smithy, with Sir Theodore right on his heels. The old knight could still move with impressive speed when the situation demanded it.

Now he was hunkered down beside Jane and Gunther, being debriefed by them on the girl's arrival, collapse and demise. Smithy had picked up the girl's body and, together with Rake, had carried her to a disused room off the forge for the time being. A distraught and flustered Pepper had quickly shooed the children off in the opposite direction, then had gone in search of Sir Ivon, at Theodore's request.

This left Sir Theodore, Gunther and Jane alone to discuss the deeply disturbing turn their morning had taken. Once the older man was brought up to speed, they'd take the news to the king together.

Gunther now handed the arrow over in silent acquiescence to the senior knight's request.

Taking it carefully in his hands, Sir Theodore turned it over and over, looking at it from all angles. He plugged the broken end with his thumb just as Gunther had, and shook it. Examined his thumb, again as Gunther had done, and with the same result. Held the broken end up to his eye, as if actually trying to _see_ into the hollow darkness within. Sniffed it. Frowned.

Gunther was becoming restless and Jane was beginning to sink back into the dazed sort of fugue state that had overcome her when she'd first recognized the arrow, when Sir Theodore brought both their attention back into sharp focus by quite suddenly and decisively snapping the arrow in two, right in the middle of the shaft. Jane's breath caught in her throat at the flash of creamy white this revealed.

There was something inside the arrow after all; a very tightly rolled piece of parchment.

Sir Theodore set the broken pieces of the arrow aside, unrolled the parchment, and read the message printed there, his weathered face becoming tighter and more grim by the second.

His hand was shaking slightly as he lowered the letter. Gunther took it and read next, and what little color had managed to return to his complexion now drained steadily back out of it, leaving him ashen by the time he was done.

Jane plucked it away from him with fingers that felt nerveless and numb, cold dread sitting heavy in the pit of her stomach.

She didn't want to _know_ what it said. She really, really didn't.

But in this situation, what she wanted was entirely irrelevant. She bent close over the parchment, and read.


	5. Chapter 5

_Greetings to King Caradoc of Kippernium,_

 _Does my messenger remind you of anyone? I hope so – I selected her because from what I have been told, she bears at least a passing resemblance to your own daughter. I very much wanted you to feel some small taste of what it is to lose someone you love. Her name is - or perhaps by the time you read this I should say,_ was _\- Eleanor. I do regret the manner of her arrival, but I wanted to be quite sure I captured your full attention. I trust my lovely young emissary, with some assistance from my comrade Jack, has succeeded in that task._

 _I will come straight to the point. Three years ago your knights attacked a group of men who were living in the forest on the border of your kingdom. Two of the forest-dwelling men were killed in the attack, one of whom was my brother._

 _We have reclaimed the forest in far greater numbers now; it no longer belongs to you, it belongs to us. We wish to exist here peacefully, but in order to do so we must sustain ourselves somehow. Therefore, villages directly bordering the forest will henceforth be expected to provide us with an annual goodwill gesture of coin, crops or livestock, and travelers who desire safe passage through the woods will be subject to a reasonable toll._

 _We are a great deal more numerous, stronger, and better equipped than we were three years ago. Should you decide to attack us again, I can promise you will discover this yourself, to your great detriment. Then you may_ really _come to know the grief of losing one you love._

 _I advise you to accept our presence here and leave us in peace. We will not trouble you if you do not trouble us. This is our land now._

 _Cordially,_

 _Marten Broadcloak_

 _Brother of Walter whom you Slew_

* * *

Jane lowered the parchment slowly, raising her eyes to seek Gunther's as she did so.

She couldn't catch his gaze, though. He was staring off into the middle distance somewhere to the left of her; there was something deeply unsettling – frightening, even – about his unfocused expression. And the way his hands were clenching and unclenching – unconsciously, spasmodically.

He looked much the way _she_ felt in that moment, which was to say, barely tethered to herself at all.

He also looked incredibly dangerous – breathtakingly so.

She opened her mouth to say – well, to be perfectly honest she really had no idea _what_ to say – but Sir Theodore beat her to it anyway.

"Jane, I wonder if you will come with me. We need to inform the king of this… development… immediately. Gunther, the arrowhead is likely still quite lethal. For all we know, it may _always_ be quite lethal. It needs to be disposed of _right now_ , and with great care. Wrap it well and bury it deep, where no one is likely to dig. All right?"

"Yes," Gunther said. His voice was flat; inflectionless and remote. The cold dread that was now almost a living thing inside Jane seemed to pulse and grow colder still at the sound of it.

Then Sir Theodore was getting to his feet and she rose to her own, falling into step with him as they headed to the heart of the keep. It was time to notify the king.

* * *

(A/N: now we come down to it! If by some small chance any of you follow a certain series of books concerning a certain Dark Tower, you will recognize the name of my new villain. Just wanted to mention that this is in no way a crossover fic; this Marten is not actually that Marten; it's just a loving tribute! :)


	6. Chapter 6

Jane was unable to locate Gunther immediately afterward. It was only after asking several people, including Smithy who was in the process of constructing a simple casket for the girl, that she managed to track her husband down.

She found him in the forge's disused storeroom, staring fixedly down at the corpse of the girl.

Of Eleanor.

Who had been condemned to die simply because a madman had wanted to prove some sick point, and she'd borne a casual, passing resemblance to Princess Lavinia – a resemblance in gender, age, hair color, and very little else.

It was so horrendously senseless and unfair.

She'd been laid out on a simple, rough-hewn table that served as a sometime work surface for Smithy. Gunther was standing there gripping the table's edge with both hands, white-knuckled. He did not move or look at her, just asked, "what did he say?" in a voice as taut as his posture.

"That we are to hunt him down, of course," Jane said, standing in the doorway of the dim, musty room. "It will take a few days to put together a large enough party – he wants us to take fifty men this time, at least. Twice that if it can be managed. There are preparations to make, to accommodate such a number, but then –"

"Come here," he interrupted her, biting the words out from between clenched teeth. "Come look at this."

"Gunther, wh–"

"Just – Jane, just come and _look_."

Feeling suddenly reluctant – what further horrors could this day possibly have in store? – she moved to stand beside him so she could see for herself what had so fully captured his attention.

And once again, she forgot to breathe.

"I had a hunch," Gunther said flatly. "And I was right."

He had undone the girl's bodice – not enough to be indecent, but enough to allow him to pull the fabric away from her left shoulder. The wound that had killed her was there – quite an unassuming little wound to have ended a healthy young life.

It matched the location of Jane's own scar exactly.

"This cannot be a coincidence," Gunther said, his voice so constricted that it sounded as if he were nearly choking on the words. "This is no accident. This is… this is…"

"A message," Jane finished, her own voice little more than a croak. Her eyes were still glued to the wound, small and clean; bloodless because the girl's heart was no longer pumping. "An even more personal one than the one to the king. A message just for us. For me."

Gunther turned toward her then, anguish and fury warring in his expression. "It is more than a message, it is a taunt," he said. "That bastard is _taunting_ us, and I look at her and I see _you_ , I see _you lying there_ because it almost… it could have… oh my God, Jane, it was so close, I came _so close_ to losing you, I – I –"

Jane didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything; just closed the distance between them with a single step, and yanked him into her arms.

His own arms shot up immediately, engulfing her, and then he was holding her so hard, _staggeringly_ hard, could-barely-draw- _breath_ hard.

"Gunther," she gasped, "Gunther stop, it is all r–"

" _Nothing_ about this situation is all right," he said harshly. He was shaking. "And you damn well _know_ it."

She couldn't very well argue that. She just closed her eyes and leaned into him. And then –

"Is this where she is? I want to see her."

Jane disengaged from Gunther, whirling to face the new arrival. "Princess," she said.


	7. Chapter 7

Lavinia stood there wearing her very best "I am royalty and expect to be summarily obeyed" expression, but Jane knew her far too well to be taken in. She had, after all, been training the now-16-year-old princess in the knightly arts for the past two and a half years. Well, she and Gunther _both_ had. Just as they'd both been instructing Lavinia's brother, Cuthbert in the same arts.

The hauteur in Lavinia's voice, and the tilt of her chin, were but a thin veneer. Beneath, it was very clear – to Jane, at any rate – that the princess was dangerously close to tears.

Jane also noticed right away that although Lavinia was dressed casually, in a manner similar to Jane herself, she was clutching one of her more elaborate gowns in her arms, balled up against her chest.

Jane didn't wonder how the princess had learned so quickly about the day's distressing – to say the least – turn of events. Lavinia was positively uncanny that way. She just… _knew_ things. Jane often thought that the princess would make a far better ruler than her older brother, who was slated for the throne. Cuthbert was no longer the spoilt horror that he'd been as a child, but he was not attuned to the world around him in the same way that Lavinia was. She had a finger on the pulse of her surroundings in a way that Cuthbert _never_ had – and, Jane thought, probably never would.

So no, Jane didn't bother wondering how Lavinia knew. She certainly was curious, however, about the significance of the wadded-up gown in the teenager's arms.

"Your highness, you should not be here," Gunther said. "You do not want to see this, I assure you."

"I _have_ to," Lavinia said, and now a tremor entered her voice. "I have to see the girl who was killed just because she looks a bit like _me_."

"Oh God," Jane whispered hoarsely. She realized, belatedly, that she had indeed been holding out at least a spark of hope that Lavinia had maybe, just maybe, not learned _that_ part of this whole sad, sick mess… although she really ought to have known better.

"So it _is_ all true?" Lavinia asked, her composure, and her face, both crumpling as she succumbed to tears. "She really is… dead… because… of _me!?_ "

" _No!_ " Jane and Gunther said, in near-perfect unison. Jane reached out and pulled the now-sobbing girl into her arms, Lavinia's stiff brocade gown bunched between them. "No," she repeated, "this is _not your fault_ , do you hear me!? This is the work of a madman, you did nothing to cause this!"

After she'd cried herself out, Lavinia pushed gently past Jane to stand, staring down at Eleanor's still body. The resemblance really was very slight – although everyone in the room was keenly aware of the fact that, slight or not, it had been enough to cost the girl her life.

"I am so sorry," Lavinia said quietly, a long moment later, once she'd gotten her breathing and voice back under control. She placed her own hand over one of the girl's. "So sorry this happened to you. And justice will be served." She turned suddenly back toward Jane and Gunther, and her eyes were blazing. " _Right!?_ "

"Yes," Jane said with utter certainty, certainty right down to the core of her being. "Of course it will."

* * *

Lavinia squared her shoulders then. "If she had to die because someone thought she resembled me, then the least I can do is give her a proper send-off." She shook out the gown; Jane recognized it as the one that the princess had worn at the ball in honor of her sixteenth birthday. She was fairly certain it was the most lavish piece of clothing Lavinia owned. Poor Eleanor would certainly have _never_ seen its like in all her life.

"She will be buried in this," Lavinia announced, her tone defiant, as if _daring_ anyone present to contradict her.

"And with flowers in her hair," added a new voice.

Jane turned once again to the doorway, to see that Pepper had arrived, carrying a basket piled high with wildflowers in one hand; the handle of a water pail in the other. Jane's quick eye took in the fact that brushes, combs and other accoutrements of grooming had been tucked in with the flowers, and several soft cloths for drying were folded over Pepper's arm.

"Sir Gunther, I must ask you to step out," Pepper said. "Smithy is almost done with the casket, Rake is digging the grave, and it is time to wash and prepare the body. I could use _your_ help though, Jane, unless there is somewhere else you need to be?"

Jane shook her head. Gunther caught her hand, briefly but hard. Gave it a squeeze as he moved toward the door.

"And you, highness," Pepper said, setting her things down, "are certainly not required to stay if –"

"I _wan_ t to stay," Lavinia broke in. "I want to help too."

"In that case, I can use all the assistance I can get," Pepper rejoined without missing a beat. "If you are absolutely sure."

"I am," Lavinia said. And then again, even more emphatically, "I owe her this. I _am_."


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Jane and Gunther got back to their chambers that night, she was so exhausted that her head was swimming. Some of this was actual physical fatigue, but by no means all of it. Mainly it was emotional exhaustion and a nearly overwhelming amount of stress.

And grief. That too. She had only met Eleanor five minutes before the girl had died, but she grieved just the same.

And fear. Not so much because she was about to be plunged back into mortal danger – but because _Gunther_ was. Her fear for her husband was so strong that the only way she could cope with it at the moment was by simply not looking at it head-on. She just couldn't. Not right now.

Right now she was craving sleep, wrapped in Gunther's strong arms. Nothing more – or _less_ – than that.

It wasn't until she was halfway undressed that she twisted her body in a certain way, tired fingers fumbling with her laces, and was reminded anew of the unintentional injury her husband had given her while sparring. Pain flared through her and she stiffened, stifling a cry before hissing in a sharp breath through her teeth.

"Jane?" Gunther was at her side in an instant. She bit her lip as she forced her body to relax, and met his worried gaze.

"My side," she said. "I forgot about it."

"Oh hell, I did too," he said. "Here – hold still."

He finished undressing her himself, manipulating the laces with the ease of long practice. When he peeled the form-fitting clothing gently away from her skin, he grimaced and sucked in a ragged breath of his own. He actually dropped to one knee for a closer look.

"Oh, God. God _damn_ it. I am so sorry, Jane."

A vivid, angry, splotchy bruise covered most of her side. He traced its outline, very gently with his fingertips, causing her to give a shuddering gasp.

"You did not mean to do it," she said. "You would never hurt me intentionally, Gunther, I know that."

He stood back up, caught her face in both his hands, simply repeated, "I am sorry. So sorry."

And kissed her.

The kiss was as gentle, as _careful_ , as his hands had been on her bruised body, but was deep as well. It was asking a question. And she forgot all about sleep, at least for the time being, as her body responded with an unequivocal _yes_.

They made slow, gentle love, in deference to her aching side. It was a pronounced departure from their usual style, which was rather more… energetic.

It was incredibly passionate, though, nevertheless – made all the more so, perhaps, by the undoubtedly perilous mission that now loomed large over them.

They hardly broke eye contact the whole time, though when they climaxed together, Jane pulled him into a nearly frantic, all-consuming kiss.

Only once they were utterly spent did she fall asleep in his arms, one of his hands splayed warm across her back, the other plunged deep into her tumult of hair.

"I love you," he whispered just as she drifted off. "I love you, Jane, so much."

"I love _you_ ," she murmured as sleep claimed her. _A thousand times more_ , she thought, but did not say. That would have incited a debate, and she was far too tired to argue.


	9. Chapter 9

She woke early, with the first light of dawn, in fact, but Gunther's side of the bed was already empty. She pushed back the covers and swung her feet over the side of the bed, just sitting there for a moment, shoving her hair back from her face both-handed and yawning.

Her side still ached, but it wasn't as bad as she had feared it would be. She made a mental note to visit Pepper and see if her friend had any recommendations as far as poultices or medicinal herbs that could speed healing or, barring that, at least soothe and numb the area as much as possible.

Even if Pepper couldn't help, though, the bruise would not get in her way. It would be a nuisance for a couple of days, but it wouldn't slow her down – she wouldn't _let_ it.

There was far too much to do. Too many preparations to make.

And Gunther had apparently gotten started on them already. Why hadn't he _woken_ her?

 _Beef brain_.

* * *

She found him with Smithy, discussing the logistical challenges of arming a large number of men on short notice. The goal was to have no fewer than fifty men – and as close to a hundred as possible – assembled, armed, and ready to ride out in three days' time. They wouldn't _all_ need their weaponry supplied by the kingdom, but a good many of them would. It was a tall order, for sure.

Coming to stand beside Gunther, she leaned instinctively into him, craving his solidity and warmth. She still hadn't completely shaken off her sleep-state, but it was more than that; the deep unease that had settled over her yesterday was still there, and only worsening with time.

Not that this was in any way surprising. She wouldn't know a moment of real peace, wouldn't be able to take a truly deep breath again, until the lunatic Broadcloak was no more.

Gunther slung an arm around her waist with casual intimacy, snugging her against him even closer.

* * *

After finishing up with Smithy, they headed toward the kitchen to get some breakfast, and so that Jane could have her conversation with Pepper. With that done, they would spend the bulk of the day in council with the king and the senior knights, strategizing; and the remainder of their time gearing up for their impending departure and making preparations for the influx of men who were expected to start arriving the following morning, or perhaps as soon as suppertime tonight.

On the way to the kitchen, Gunther informed Jane that Sir Ivon was canvassing the castle town trying to discover whether anyone had witnessed the girl's approach yesterday; she _must_ have been conspicuous, after all, as obviously ill and unsteady on her feet as she'd been.

Sir Theodore was writing out summonses that would be taken by messenger, within the hour, to the three largest outlying towns that were within a day's ride of the castle. These missives would request that all able-bodied men report immediately to their king, who urgently needed their services in the face of a deadly threat to the kingdom.

"So, how did Dragon take it?" Gunther asked, as the two of them settled at the garden table to eat their porridge. They were the only ones there just then.

Jane grimaced.

"That well, eh?"

"That well," she affirmed.

When Dragon had arrived for their sunset patrol the previous evening, Jane had known that of course she'd have to share news of the crisis with him. She had waited, however, until they'd been well away from the castle – over the mountains, above the treeline – before she'd asked him to land, and had laid it all out.

After all, sometimes when Dragon lost his temper, things had a way of, well, catching fire.

It had been an entirely wise precaution to take.

Dragon had been just about beside himself.

"You know he will not tolerate being left behind this time," Jane said now. "Not after… well. _Last_ time. It does not matter _what_ the king decrees about it – he is a _dragon_ , in the end, and he is going to do what he thinks is right. He is going to come."

"Good," Gunther said emphatically. "I would not want it any other way. Although realistically, there will be little he can do. He will not be able to get into the thick woods where these… these _scum_ are hiding. But just having him there, a known presence, will be good for our morale – and bad for theirs."

"Yes," Jane mused. "I wonder whether they even believe he is real."

On some of their more extensive journeys over the past couple of years that had _not_ included Dragon, Gunther and Jane had been surprised to find that even within the kingdom's borders, there was a good deal of skepticism among the more distant communities, as to whether the "supposed dragon" existed at all.

They had encountered a fair few people who had maintained that the whole story was nothing but "courtly nonsense" cooked up by a bored nobility who had nothing better to _do_ with their time – such as farming, building, blacksmithing, or other good, honest work.

Initially, Jane had been predictably indignant at this lack of belief in her best friend's very existence, but Gunther had pointed out that it might not be a bad thing at all for Dragon to remain more or less "under wraps", at least in Kippernium's outer lands. It could give them an advantage of surprise, should that ever be needed.

Although at the time, neither of them had been able to actually imagine a scenario in which it could _truly_ become a factor.

They had ended up being, for the most part, amused by the whole thing – especially the handful of times they'd actually witnessed arguments, usually in the common rooms of inns where they'd stopped for the night, between people who believed in Dragon and those who did not. There had been times they'd had to retire early to the privacy of their accommodations, because they'd known they'd be collectively unable to keep a straight face for even a moment longer.

There was no humor left in the situation now, though.

"I was wondering that too," Gunther said. "I suppose we will soon find out."


	10. Chapter 10

By the next day, Jane's plum-colored bruise was turning yellow around the edges, and she was able to twist this way and that without too much discomfort. She felt improved enough to insist that she and Gunther return to their sparring regimen. He was reluctant, but had to concede that practicing their combat skills was more important now than it had _ever_ been before.

They sparred first thing in the morning, right after sunrise, and again in the evening, just before sunset. In between, their day was a whirlwind of activity. Men arrived steadily in answer to the king's summons, and when they reached the castle, it largely fell to Jane and Gunther to greet them, explain the situation to them, assess their combat experience, if any; get them equipped, and show them where they could bed down until they marched out.

When they weren't playing "welcoming committee", there were other things to do. More sessions with the king, Sir Theodore, and Sir Ivon, who shared the results of his inquiry into the girl's arrival at the castle. He'd found three people who had witnessed a horse, bearing two riders, cantering up nearly to the castle gates.

Eleanor had been one of the riders; a hooded man, the second. He'd swung down, lifted _her_ down, steadied her on her feet, given her a little shove toward the gate, then remounted and galloped away without so much as a word.

It certainly made sense, given Eleanor's extremely compromised state, that she's been carried most of the way on horseback. It was interesting information to come by, but not really useful in any practical sense. There was no clear description of the man, and he was long gone anyway – almost back to the forest by now, presumably.

Jane and Gunther also carved out some time for the prince and princess, to resume their lessons and practice sessions. They agreed that it was important to try and maintain at least some semblance of normalcy for their royal pupils, despite the fact that the situation was patently and undeniably… well, _not normal_.

It didn't go very well, though. All four of them were badly distracted, and they called it off early.

* * *

By halfway through the following day, it became apparent that more men were answering the call than they'd even hoped for. It looked as if by the time they rode out, they'd be accompanied by _over_ a hundred men, perhaps as many as a hundred and twenty all-told. Pepper was having a devil of a time trying to keep them fed – Rake had abandoned his gardening duties and was working full-time with her. Smithy's wife pitched in as well, and even Jane found that "kitchen help" was added to her ever-growing roster of duties. Pepper never asked for her assistance outright, but the need was so apparent that she could hardly fail to see it.

But even with all the extra work they generated, the number of volunteers worked wonders on Jane and Gunther's morale. Until, that was, it didn't anymore.

" _Please_ reconsider, sire. You know what this man is capable of. He is _dangerous_. I understand what you are trying to do, but I do not believe that this is the time." Gunther's voice was tinged with desperation as he spoke. "There will be other, less perilous opportunities for him to test his mettle. "

But the king was unmoved.

"Had only fifty or sixty men answered the summons, Sir Gunther, the situation would be different and we would not be having this conversation. But over a hundred men will march out. I think I can be reasonably assured of my son's safety. I know you will not allow him into the thick of combat, in any event. Wherever you make camp, there he must stay; but it is my desire that he go along. Cuthbert will rule this land someday, and God willing it will be a long and prosperous reign. It is time that he begins to really take ownership of the kingdom, its lands and people; not in any legal sense yet of course, but here – (Caradoc tapped his temple) – and here – (he tapped his heart.) This is my decree, Sir Gunther. And I will have it obeyed."

There was nothing to be done then, but the king's will. But it didn't sit easy with either Gunther or Jane. An _immense_ new burden of responsibility had just been dropped onto their shoulders, in a situation that had been stressful enough already.

Tired as she was, it took Jane a long, long time to fall asleep that night. And even when she finally did, Gunther, beside her, was still staring bleakly at the ceiling.


	11. Chapter 11

"A knight should stay here," Gunther said into the pre-dawn darkness, "with the rest of the royal family."

Jane paused in the act of lacing up her jerkin. Well no, not paused.

Froze.

"What?"

"Cuthbert is coming on the march," Gunther said. He was several feet away from Jane in the dim of their room, pulling on his boots and not looking at her. "But the king, queen and princess are staying here. They need protection. I mean my God, what if this whole thing is a ploy to draw us away, leaving them vulnerable to attack? Have you even thought –"

"Sir Ivon is staying," she interrupted. "Ivon and a dozen strong men. He is staying and that is the _reason_ he is staying, and you know that. You _know_ that, Gunther." She did a good job controlling her voice as she spoke, but her breaths were coming faster now. In a matter of seconds she'd gone from normal respiration to nearly _panting_. Was he really… he couldn't actually… be doing what she _thought_ he was doing… could he? _Could_ he!?

Surely not, she told herself. And yet, even as she tried to convince herself, she knew better. He was. He really was.

He straightened up and sighed, still turned mostly away from her, only visible in profile. "Jane, I think you know what I mean. Ivon is… Ivon. With all due respect, he is past his prime. And the others are not trained. Someone younger should stay, someone quicker, stronger, whose training is fresh –"

"So, are you volunteering?" she demanded, knowing the answer even as she asked.

Her hands were balled into fists, balled so tightly that her nails were digging painful crescents into her palms. When had _that_ happened? She didn't know. Her face felt incredibly hot – she had to be flushing nearly as red as her hair.

"No," he said, sounding weary, even though dawn had not yet begun to stain the sky. "I am not volunteering."

"Go ahead and say it then, Gunther," she gritted out from between clenched teeth. "Spit it out."

"Jane –"

"Do _not_ 'Jane' me! Just _spit it out!_ "

"Fine. I think you should stay. I… I _wish_ … you would stay."

 _Control your breathing. Control it, Jane_. She was trying, but it was hard. And oh, her heart was racing. She was almost dizzy with the magnitude of his betrayal.

"Well, _I_ wish none of this had happened in the first place," She managed, "and you are just as likely to have _your_ wish granted, Gunther Breech, as I am."

"Jane, if you would just consider –"

"NO!" The explosive force of that negative shocked even her. "I will _not_ consider it! How could you – even – Gunther – _no!_ "

"It is a sensible precaution to –"

"Then _stay!_ " she shouted. "Stay and guard them, and I will not have to worry about you, and that will be an immense relief! And that is really what it is all about, is it not? You want to keep me here, safe and sound, so _you_ do not have to worry about _me!_ Of all the selfish… selfish…" she couldn't even find another word, although she was grasping frantically. Her mind was stuck on _selfish_.

"Jane, that is not –"

"It _is!_ Oh yes, it is! I cannot… _believe_ you would… would do this to me… I _told_ you I would not be put aside on some, some _shelf_ in times of danger for _safe-keeping_ , I told you that and you said, you said you understood –" she was stumbling over her words, she was so upset, her half-laced jerkin entirely forgotten. "I knew you did not like it, any more than I like the idea of _you_ in danger, I hate it, I _hate_ it! I knew you did not like it, but you said you understood, you… you… and now…" She broke off, nearly gasping by now, and shook her head hard. "This is who I am. You said you understood who I am. I am a knight, Gunther, just the _same as you!_ "

"Not exactly the same," Gunther said and now, to Jane at least, he just sounded mulish. "You are also my wife, and as your husband, I could _order_ you to stay."

Although she certainly didn't know it, Jane had never in her life looked – or _sounded_ – as dangerous as she did in that moment when she positively snarled, " _you… could… TRY_."

Gunther sucked in a breath; looked, for a few eternal seconds, to be on the edge of an explosion of his own – then spun on his heel and left the room without another word, slamming the door behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

Jane finalized her preparations in a haze. She was on autopilot as she finished dressing and bolted down a few bites of breakfast without tasting it. On autopilot as she took her leave of the king and queen, and tried to soothe Lavinia, who was absolutely _spitting_ mad that her brother was being included in the march and she wasn't. She was only two years younger, and had been in training for the same amount of time he had – _it was NOT FAIR!_

She was even on autopilot as she said farewell to her parents and friends. Pepper's many tears didn't manage to snap her out of it, nor even did the single one, rare as a jewel, on her mother's cheek.

She didn't really come out of it until they were miles down the road. She blinked and shook herself, slightly surprised to find herself astride her horse, riding along with the company, when her last clear memory was of Gunther slamming their chamber door.

She couldn't wrap her mind around it. Had that really _happened?_ Had he really tried to order her to stay behind like some… some… docile little _housewife?_ Had he really _betrayed_ her that way?

She looked around, bemused, like someone waking from a dream. She couldn't see him. With some hundred and twenty other people in the company, she could probably avoid seeing him for the entire march, if she tried. This thought hurt her heart.

The fact that it was accompanied by a sense of relief hurt it far more.

What happened now? They were supposed to face adversity together! As upset as she'd been about the whole situation right from the moment the girl had arrived, she had never in her wildest dreams anticipated that it would impact her relationship with Gunther this way. She felt lost, completely adrift. She had no idea how to cope, what to _do_.

 _Put it aside. Put it aside for now, You cannot go down this route right now. You have to focus on what is going on around you. You have to focus on the task at hand_.

Yes, that was right. She couldn't allow herself to get bogged down in this… this… no. Just no. She had to pull herself together, for the moment anyway. Once Dragon caught up with them, she could pour her heart out to him. Caradoc had been amenable to the idea of Dragon going along this time – not that it would have deterred Dragon even if the king had said no.

Caradoc had only asked that, because he could cover distance so much more quickly than horses, Dragon delay his departure so as to catch up with the company once they'd reached the outskirts of the forest, and preferably under cover of darkness. This would preserve any advantage of surprise that might exist if, in fact, Broadcloak and his men _were_ ignorant of Dragon's existence.

Even if they had spies posted along the way keeping tabs on the company's progress, this way the outlaws would be unaware that Dragon was a member of the king's party.

So if she could just hold it together until Dragon caught them up…

Yes. She seized on that notion almost desperately. She didn't think she'd ever wanted her friend as badly as she did right now, but he'd join them soon. She just had to try to put this out of her mind, and make it until then.

* * *

They made their first camp in a sizable clearing beside a small river. Looking around at all the men and horses, Jane truly reflected, for the first time, on the fact that this was the largest military operation she had ever been a part of. She sincerely hoped it was the largest one she'd ever _need_ to be a part of.

She helped with gathering firewood and water to boil. Dusk began to fall, a simple camp supper was being prepared, and the men divided themselves around two dozen or so campfires. Gunther was still nowhere to be seen and Jane was in the midst of a fierce internal debate over whether to seek him out or not, when a young man approached her to say that Sir Theodore was requesting her presence in the command tent.

Certainly Gunther would be there too, so the decision was removed from her shoulders. As she approached the command tent – easy to find because it was the _only_ tent – she was unsure how she felt about this. Then she ducked inside and there was no more time to ruminate; there he was.

She swept him with her eyes; he looked tired and grim. So did Sir Theodore for that matter, and most likely, she thought fleetingly, so did she.

She tried to catch his eye, but couldn't. He glanced her way when she entered, and his jawline tightened even further, but he refuted her attempt at actual eye contact, looking quickly away again.

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

Was it really going to be this way?

The _whole time?_

Gunther!

Quite suddenly her throat was constricted and her eyes were burning. She swallowed hard, _blinked_ hard, and focused her attention solely on Sir Theodore. At least there was very little to discuss; the day's march had been more or less entirely uneventful. No enemy spies, scouts or outriders had been encountered. It was a very brief council session, and Jane, being closest to the tent flap, slipped out the moment it was over.

She told herself angrily that if Gunther called her name she wouldn't even turn around. She had no opportunity to test her resolve on the matter, though, because he never did.

Bundling her bedroll under her arm, she first checked on Cuthbert and then searched the campfires until she found Smithy. He was the only one of her castle friends to be along on the march; with so many men, horses, and weapons involved in this venture, his expertise was essential. His size and strength would make him a valuable combatant too, in a pinch – although he'd promised his frantic wife that he wouldn't fight unless he absolutely had to.

"Can I join you?" she asked, dropping her armful of bedding beside him, exhaustedly.

His eyebrows shot nearly to his hairline as he asked, simply and without artifice, "are you all right?"

"No," she said flatly, folding herself into a sitting position next to him. She didn't elaborate – and he didn't press her. He just made room for her to lay out her bedroll, and handed her a dish of food when she was done.

She ate apathetically, without tasting anything. She probably would have set the dish aside after just a couple of bites, but she knew that Smithy was watching her closely, for all that he wasn't pressuring her to talk. So she finished her supper, rolled herself in her blankets, and sank into sleep, thankful for her friend's solid warmth beside her, thankful for his murmured "goodnight" although she didn't return it.

Sleep claimed her too fast.


	13. Chapter 13

She woke once, in the darkest stretch of the night, opening her eyes to blazing galaxies of stars wheeling overhead. The sight was breathtakingly beautiful… and heart-stoppingly lonely.

She closed her eyes again, shutting it out, and descended back into sleep.

* * *

The second day of the march began as uneventfully as the first. The company was up before first light, on the move soon after full dawn. Jane remained near Smithy. Other than a couple of glances across the campsite before they got underway, she didn't see Gunther at all – for the majority of the day, at any rate.

The morning march passed without incident, as did their brief, cold lunch. It was getting on toward the middle of the afternoon, and the trees to either side of the road were getting progressively thicker, when the enemy opened fire.

There was a brief volley from the trees to the right of the road, followed by another from the left. It wasn't much of an attack, really; more of an announcement – _you are now entering hostile territory_.

"Shields up!" Sir Theodore yelled from the front of the column, his voice carrying amazingly well through the clear, woodsy air. The men complied, but by then it was essentially over – a handful of shadows sifted and flickered through the trees and were gone.

A few of the men gave angry shouts and made to charge off the path in pursuit. "NO!" Jane shouted, "hold your positions!" Anyone who broke rank and went barreling off into the trees alone would be as good as dead. That was probably just what their assailants had been hoping to provoke.

From somewhere up the column she heard hear husband shouting, "has anyone been hit!?"

 _Gunther!_

The sound of his voice overwhelmed her with a frantic, _driving_ need to see for herself that he was all right. He _sounded_ all right, but what if… what _if!?_

No, she had to see.

Everyone had stopped moving – it was a moment of confusion. Jane maneuvered her horse to the outside of the column and spurred toward the front of the line, toward the sound of Gunther's voice.

She had been riding with the rear guard, whereas Gunther was almost at the head of the column. He spotted her riding toward him and spurred his mount around, trotting back to meet her.

"Are you all right?" she asked, at the same time as he demanded, "are you out of your goddamn _mind!?_ "

She simply stared at him for a space of several seconds, open-mouthed, surprised into silence.

"Riding up the side of the column like that," he said – nearly shouted, in fact. "You are completely exposed to the woods, what the hell are you _thinking!?_ "

"I needed to know you were… well," she managed, finally.

He swept her from head to foot and back again with his eyes, lightning fast. He had to be assessing her for any possible signs of harm, just as she had felt compelled to do to him – but his expression remained cold and closed-off, even so.

"I would be a lot better if I did not have to worry about _you_ taking stupid risks," he snapped, then turned his mount and spurred away from her.

The column began moving again. Jane, stunned, remained where she was until the rear guard caught her up, then fell back in with them.

She was at a complete loss for what to do. Gunther was not only her husband, he was her partner in every sense of the word. Or… or, _had_ been.

And now he was doing what he had promised her, what he had _sworn_ to her, he would never do. He'd said he'd never shut her out again and now… now…

She veered away from that line of thought – if she went any further down that road, she felt she'd be in imminent danger of losing her composure completely, and that was a luxury she absolutely could not afford while on a military march. For God's sake! How could he put her in this position, how could he _do_ this to her!?

 _[Do not think about it just breathe just breathe breathe breathe]_

…Gunther!


	14. Chapter 14

When they made their second camp, they immediately posted a sizable guard all around the perimeter. Parties of no fewer than half a dozen armed men were organized to forage for firewood, and as for water, they arranged the camp so that it actually straddled both sides of a lively little brook.

This meant that no one would have to venture outside the camp's perimeter in order to fetch fresh water.

As the light faded from the sky and preparations were made for another night in the open, Jane was once again summoned to the command tent. There was more to discuss this time, in light of the attack they'd come under a couple of hours before.

She arrived before Gunther, ducking into the tent to find Sir Theodore alone, massaging his temples with his fingertips. He gave her a tired smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Jane, are you well?"

"As well as can be under the circumstances, I suppose," she replied.

"Jane, about Gunther… are you –"

But Gunther entered just at that moment and Sir Theodore stopped mid-question, choosing instead to dive right into the most pressing matter at hand – the attack on the column.

Only two men had been hit, and neither injury was serious. One in the upper arm, the other in the outer thigh. Neither hit was deep.

That was little consolation to Jane, though. A hit didn't _have_ to be deep to be fatal – if a certain kind of arrow was involved, at least.

"But the arrows," she began, at the same time as Gunther demanded, "do they… are they showing any… _signs?_ "

Sir Theodore waved them both silent. "I believe the arrows to be perfectly ordinary," he said, "although either of you would probably be a better judge than I, in that regard. So I asked that they be delivered to me once they had been… extracted. Take a look, and tell me what _you_ think."

Jane and Gunther leaned forward simultaneously to examine the arrows that the older knight produced, and Jane's breath caught in her throat at their sudden proximity.

They were very nearly touching – close enough to one another that she could smell his familiar scent and feel the heat he was putting off. His hair spilled forward across his eyes. He reached up to shove it back, moving unconsciously; automatically. Jane found herself aching to catch his hand in her own, to twine her fingers through his and squeeze. But he was still holding himself so stiff and aloof, so _apart_ from her, that she knew without question any such gesture would be emphatically rebuffed.

A sense of loneliness swept over her; it was so complete and profound that she was almost dizzy with it. God, she missed him so much! So much that she _ached_ with it. He was right here, literally a breath away from her, so close their hair nearly mingled as they inclined their heads over the arrows – and yet, he might as well have been a hundred miles away,

He was completely shut off from her and dear God, but it hurt.

She forced herself, with an effort, to shift her attention from her husband to the weapons she was supposed to be inspecting, and gave a little sigh of relief. Well _this_ , at least, was all right. They were not Green Jack's trademark poisoned arrows; she'd bet on that. The wood of the shaft, the arrows of the fletching, the length, all of these particulars were different from the arrow that had killed Eleanor, and the one that had nearly killed her.

She took a step back, actually shaking a little with reaction – but whether it was a reaction to her conclusion about the arrow or a reaction to her reflections on Gunther, she couldn't tell.

"No," she said to Sir Theodore, "these arrows are not… like those others."

"I agree," Gunther said simply, his tone tight and clipped.

"Still," Jane added, pointedly not looking at her husband, "the men who were hit should be watched for the next couple of days. Closely. Just in case."

"A sensible recommendation," the older knight said. "I had the same thought myself; they most certainly will be."

They discussed a few more logistical matters, then dispersed again. When they did so, Jane made a point of being the first one out of the tent again, even though this time she actually had to step _around_ Gunther in order to accomplish it.

She couldn't stand to be in close proximity to him for even a moment longer, not when she could feel his aloofness practically rolling off him in waves. And she couldn't stand the thought of answering Sir Theodore's questions about the whole situation either, _whatever_ they were. She was dreadfully certain that she'd lose her composure entirely.

* * *

Her night followed much the same trajectory as the one before. She checked in with Cuthbert, then found Smithy. This time, as he handed her a plate of nondescript, greyish camp food, he began to ask, "do you want to t–"

" _No_ ," she said, more harshly than she'd intended. She paused, drew in a not-quite steady breath, and softened her voice. "Thank you for your concern, but no."

Grateful as she was for his presence, she did not want to talk about it with Smithy.

What she wanted was Dragon, with an almost frantic intensity.

Actually what she really wanted was Gunther, was things back the way they'd been before… but Dragon would do in a pinch.

"As you like," Smithy said, apparently unruffled, and they ate in silence. Yes, for the most part her night was just like the previous one, with a single exception; she had a shift on the watch rotation this time.

 _Everyone_ had a shift on the watch rotation this time.

Danger was coming ever closer – or rather, _they_ were coming ever closer to danger. And after that afternoon's attack, they all felt it.


	15. Chapter 15

On the third morning of the march, Jane opened her eyes and simply lay unmoving for a long while, staring up at the grey, branch-laced sky above her.

She stayed very still, breathing lightly, feeling the solid warmth of Smithy, wrapped in his own bedroll, still asleep beside her. A wave of loneliness crashed over her, so intense that it very nearly qualified as physical pain. Keeping her gaze trained straight upward, she contemplated whether she could fool herself into thinking it was really Gunther beside her, putting off that lovely sleep-heat.

She couldn't, though, and really she knew it. She knew Smithy well – quite well – they'd been friends since childhood. But she didn't know every contour of his body as she did Gunther's. Couldn't predict his breathing pattern the way she could Gunther's. Hell, even the very quality of the heat he was radiating was somehow different from Gunther's.

And then there was Smithy's scent to consider; a faintly metallic tang, hardly surprising given his line of work. It was not unpleasant, but it was definitely unique and completely _un_ -Gunther. Simply put, the man smelled like iron.

No, even without looking at him there was no mistaking the many differences between this man and… and _her_ man. The whole _let's try and pretend this is Gunther_ exercise was pointless; it was a doomed enterprise.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows and shook her hair out of her eyes, then sat up, yawning, and twisted the whole flaming mass of it into a knot at the nape of her neck. It was time to start another day, and God but she felt so lost without Gunther's presence beside her.

But Dragon would be catching up to them right after nightfall – if everything went according to plan, at least. There was that to look forward to, at any rate. She practically _ached_ to be reunited with her dear friend. She just had to make it from dawn to dusk, just half a day and he'd be here.

 _Hurry up, Dragon. Be safe, but come quickly. I need you._

Freeing herself from the cocoon of her bedroll, she headed for the creek to splash some cold water on her face. Time to shake off the last vestiges of sleep. She'd need to be as sharp as possible today. They all would.

* * *

It was nearly time to stop for the midday meal when Jane, once again riding at the rear of the column with Smithy, became aware that something was going on up at the front.

The company of men first slowed and then stopped, jostling with agitation. Excited whispers and murmurs seemed to start at the head of the line and then raced toward the rear like a fast-moving current through a body of water.

Jane adjusted her cloak to give herself freer access to the sword at her hip, and loosened it in its scabbard. Something was happening and she intuited that whatever it was, it was trouble.

Which was only to be expected, after all, given the nature of their errand.

She and Smithy exchanged a sidelong glance – his eyebrows were quirked. She noticed that he had a long-handled and rather wicked-looking hammer lying across the saddle just in front of him; it hadn't been there a minute ago, she was sure of it. He saw her notice, and gave her a slight but meaningful nod.

She nodded back.

Then there was an even greater disturbance among the men, and Jane realized that someone was riding back from the head of the column. It was a young soldier, a lad who looked to be about Cuthbert's age. He reined up beside her.

"Lady Jane, Sir Theodore requests your presence at the front," he said, voice thrumming with barely-suppressed excitement. And then he spurred back toward the front of the column himself.

Jane took a deep breath and followed.

* * *

The source of the commotion was immediately apparent. Reining up beside Gunther and Sir Theodore, Jane saw that ranged across the road in front of them, blocking their path, were a dozen or so armed men.

They were on foot. A few of them had swords; a couple held large staves. Two had bows. Jane's eyes were immediately riveted to one of these, because he was clad from head to foot in varying shades of green.

Was this the man who was responsible for Eleanor's death? The man who'd nearly been responsible for _hers?_ The man who had given her the small silver scar on her shoulder that she'd carry for the rest of her life, that made Gunther's eyes turn dark every time he looked at it?

Was this Green Jack?

She had a lightning-quick flash of memory, of a face peering out of the greenery at her in the instant that she'd taken that arrow, a face as surprised as her own in that moment because the arrow hadn't been intended for _her_ …

And yes, she was almost certain that this was the face she had seen that day. She was looking at the man who had nearly taken her life.


	16. Chapter 16

The man in green was not, however, the one in charge of the small band of outlaws in front of her. That designation seemed to belong to the man positioned in the center of the line, the only one who was not visibly armed.

He stood apparently completely at ease, feet planted confidently far apart. In fact, he seemed more than merely confident; he projected a sense of… well, of downright insolence.

His reaction to Jane's approach only confirmed this impression.

"What is this?" he drawled, raking her with his eyes in a way that was indisputably suggestive – lascivious, even. "Did you bring me a present? Really, you are too kind."

Gunther sucked in a sharp breath. Jane shot a quick glance at him – he was absolutely radiating fury. His jaw was clenched so hard that cords stood out on his neck; his hands fisted, white-knuckled, on his reins. Jane knew him well enough to recognize that he was a breath away from losing control.

The man who had spoken seemed to realize it too. "Oh dear," he said with mock sincerity, a malicious glint in his eye, "I appear to have struck a nerve. How regrettable. But I admit I do not understand why you brought along such a pretty bauble, if not to serve as a peace offering?"

Jane was too busy being concerned about Gunther to even register any outrage on her own behalf. His nostrils flared and one hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword.

" _Gunther_ ," she whispered, and laid a restraining hand on his arm.

Snarling, he shook it off – and it was Jane's turn to draw in a hurt breath.

It was Sir Theodore who spoke. "I called _Lady_ Jane to the front because she is one of the senior knights in our company and as such, has a right – indeed, an _obligation_ – to be present during negotiations with the enemy."

" _Enemy?_ You wound me," the man protested, spreading his arms wide. "We are simply protecting our home, nothing more."

"These lands belong to his majesty, King Caradoc," Sir Theodore said. "Now, are you Marten Broadcloak?"

The man faltered for a second, and Sir Theodore nodded tightly. "I thought not. So say what you were sent here to say, _messenger_ , so we may be on our way."

The outlaw's expression changed so fast it was as if he'd whisked a mask off his face. Gone in an instant was the veneer of good humor; his lips twisted and his eyes flashed.

"I am no message-boy, _old man_ , I am Marten's right hand. And what I came to say is this; you would be well advised to turn back now, and if you do continue, it is at your own peril. The forest is ours now, and it is going to remain ours. So _get out_."

He paused dramatically, but the only response he received was Sir Theodore inquiring calmly, "Is that all?"

The man's lips drew back from his teeth in an expression of nearly feral anger. "If you want to do things the hard way, old man, then so be it. You have been warned."

He flashed a curt hand signal at his men, and they turned and vanished, almost silently, into the trees on either side of the road. He started to follow them, but after a few steps he paused and looked back.

"I heard rumors of a mighty beast – a dragon, in fact, that would be accompanying you," he sneered. Although not phrased as a question, it clearly was one.

"Nonsense," Sir Theodore said dismissively.

"We _need_ no dragon to deal with the likes of you," Gunther spat, his voice literally shaking with rage.

"Hmm," said the outlaw, glancing from Gunther to Jane and back again. "A raw nerve indeed." His face lit up once more in a malicious grin, and he addressed his next words to Jane.

"I look forward to getting to know _you_ a great deal better, my pretty bauble," he said, then turned and disappeared into the greenery after his men, as Jane and Sir Theodore reached in unison to restrain Gunther, who was clearly about to throw himself off his horse and lunge after him.

"Gunther, _stop_ ," Jane hissed to her husband, who was nearly apoplectic by this point.

He jerked away from her so violently it was almost as if her touch burned him, then exhaled explosively through his nose. "Can we go?" he asked Sir Theodore, through still-gritted teeth.

The older man gave a single, authoritative nod, signaling assent, and the company got moving again.

Jane fell out of the formation and waited for the rear guard to catch her up, falling back in beside Smithy at the end of the column.

"Is everything all right?" he asked her, his calm tone belied by the intensely searching gaze he leveled on her.

"Yes," she said automatically. Then, a second later, "no. No, everything is wrong, and I –" but she broke off, unable to continue. She was pretty sure that if she said much more she'd be in very real danger of completely falling to pieces, so she simply shook her head, and they rode on in silence.


	17. Chapter 17

Jane's head came up with a jerk, eyes widening in the darkness. She was almost certain she had just heard what she had been waiting for – _longing_ for – ever since she'd clattered out of the castle courtyard three days earlier.

Wingbeats. Dragon was here at last.

She got to her feet, green eyes narrowed and searching the star-filled sky.

It was about three hours past sundown. Anticipating Dragon's arrival, the company had made camp in a large meadow so that he'd easily be able to spot the campfires from above.

Jane had been sitting at the edge of the clearing, her back against a tree trunk, her blanket draped about her to fend off the evening chill, chin resting on her drawn-up knees, just… waiting.

Waiting for this.

She saw him then, a moving shadow blotting out the stars. He was descending fast, coming in for a landing, and then just a few heartbeats later he was there, he was _finally there_ , touching down just a few yards away from her, and she was hurtling herself across the short distance that separated them, throwing her arms as far around his neck as she could get them and pressing her face to his warm scales, absolutely swamped with relief.

"Jane!" he exclaimed, sounding tired but happy. "This is quite the welcome! I have missed you too, not to mention been worried half to –" but he stopped then, realizing that Jane's greeting was less joyful than… well, a bit _manic_ , truth be told.

"Hey," he said, turning his head to press his large green cheek against her. "Hey, coppertop, what is going on? What is the matter?"

Her only response was to release a long, shuddery sigh and nuzzle deeper into the hollow where his shoulder met his throat.

Dragon gave a low, unmistakably menacing rumble. "Is it that shortlife you are mated to? What has he done _now?_ "

Jane uttered a laugh that was nearly a sob. "How do you always _know?_ "

"Because no one else can upset you the way he can!" Dragon said in exasperation. "Honestly Jane, I know you are fond of him, for reasons that usually escape me… but I am reaching the limit of times I can be tempted to roast him to a crisp without actually _doing_ it!"

" _Dragon!_ " Jane exclaimed in mock horror, but she was already feeling worlds better, she realized, simply by virtue of having her friend beside her. She sighed and raked her hands through her hair, tugging fitfully at her curls.

"Yes, it is Gunther," she said, "of _course_ it is Gunther. I will tell you all about it, but… you must be hungry and thirsty and exhausted, too, and… and _look_ at you, you are all weighed down! What _is_ all this, Dragon? Here – let me help you with these straps – what on _earth?_ "

"Rations and supplies," Dragon grunted, rolling his great shoulders as Jane began unburdening him of the many parcels, a couple of them quite large, that had been strapped to his back. "The _cook_ decided you might be running short on food. Treated like a common beast of burden, I am!"

Jane smiled to herself as she worked, knowing how patently impossible it would be for anyone to load Dragon up like this without his consent and indeed, cooperation. Still, that didn't keep him from complaining quite theatrically about how underappreciated and misused he was.

He went on quite a bit more in this vein as Jane continued to relieve him of various bundles – that is, until she cut one particularly large bundle loose, tried to lift it down, found it to be considerably heavier than she'd expected, and ended it dropping it unceremoniously to the ground.

The bundle yelped.

Jane sucked in a sharp breath and jumped backward, drawing her sword in a single fluid motion even as she did so.

For his part, Dragon spun around too, growling low in his throat as he reached out and tentatively poked at the offending parcel with one large claw.

It yelped again and then began to thrash –

And yell.

The shouts were muffled, but understandable.

" – _out_ of here! I am cold and sore and I can barely _bree_ –"

Before she really had a chance to process what she was hearing, though, Gunther was there too, skidding to a stop beside her, having flung himself across the clearing at a dead run when Jane had drawn her sword. He must have been watching her reunion with Dragon from somewhere in the darkened camp.

His own blade now rang as he yanked it from its scabbard, throwing his other arm out, protectively, in front of Jane. He was breathing hard, and it couldn't just have been from running across the field; the distance was not great enough to cause that much exertion. He was damn near _panting_ because he was damn near _panicking_ – one look at his face was all it took to ascertain that.

"What –" he managed, "what is –" and then the parcel heaved and gave another muffled shout and he was on the move, lunging forward with lethal speed, raising his sword to strike.

" _ **NO**!_ " Jane screamed, throwing herself after him, dropping her sword and grabbing him both handed, yanking him back. "Gunther, _no!_ Listen! _Listen!_ I think it is –"

And then the person inside the bundle managed to flail at least partway free and Gunther's sword slipped from his hand to join Jane's on the ground, his face going momentarily blank with shock. Jane met his eyes for just a fraction of a second – they were huge and horrified – and then she was springing forward to help the young woman who was struggling to sit up.

"Princess Lavinia!" she cried.


	18. Chapter 18

"Have you completely and irretrievably _lost your MIND!?_ " Jane's voice rose until the last word was very nearly a screech. She stopped her pacing for a moment to stand, panting, in the middle of the command tent, her hands coming up to clench in the riot of fiery hair at her temples. It was an unconscious gesture of frustration and distress that were beyond her ability to communicate in words.

"This is a disaster," she said, after she'd taken several deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself. And then, again, " _This is a DISASTER!_ " her voice climbing right back up to a shout. "Lavinia! What were you _thinking!?_ "

The princess was standing a few feet away, clad similarly to Jane in simple, dark breeches and jerkin, her hair in a coiled braid and her arms crossed over her chest, defiant.

"I was thinking that I am nearly as well-trained as Cuthbert! That it is _my_ kingdom as much as his, these are my _people_ as much as his, and this is my responsibility _as much as his!_ If he is here, so should I be, that is what I was thinking!"

"Well you thought _wrong_ ," Jane said furiously. "Cuthbert has come of age, you have not. You are a _child_ , a reckless, impulsive child who could not stand the thought of being left out of what you imagined to be some sort of… of grand adventure! This is not some bard's song, this is _life and death_ \- Gunther was one second away from laying you open, throat to thighbone, Lavinia!"

"He never really would –" the princess began, but Gunther cut her off.

"Yes I damn well _would_ have," he said, grating the words out between his teeth. He was standing by the tent flap, looking mad enough to spit nails. Sir Theodore was also present, looking haggard beyond belief – and Cuthbert rounded out their little party, tousle-headed, having been roused from sleep, staring at his sister with an expression of pure, gob-smacked shock. "Would have and nearly did," Gunther continued, "had Jane not yanked me back. We are in enemy territory, we have already encountered them, and I thought it was an enemy trick. You have no _idea_ how lucky you are to be alive right now, majesty."

Lavinia gave him a wounded look. Jane wondered distractedly whether she was wounded because he'd almost hacked her to pieces, or because he'd bluntly _said_ so, thus joining in her chastisement.

Though honestly, what did it matter? She was so upset that her thoughts were scattering, trying to fly in a dozen directions at once.

She had never been so angry with the princess. This was beyond irresponsible. This was a catastrophe! What, what in God's name –

"What are we going to _do?_ " she asked wretchedly, turning to Sir Theodore in appeal. Just that quickly she went from being the angry mentor berating her protégé to simply being an overwhelmed young knight, desperately seeking wisdom from her elder.

It was not Sir Theodore who answered, however, but Cuthbert.

"Send her _back,_ " he said, speaking for the first time since he'd been awakened and brought to the command tent. "Why are we even discussing this? Assemble a party of men to escort her! She has go _home_."

Lavinia rounded on him angrily. " _You_ go h–" she began heatedly, but Sir Theodore cut her off.

"Enough," the old knight said, and if there was weariness in his voice, there was also steel in his tone. It brooked no argument. Lavinia lapsed into sullen silence as Theodore raked one hand through his greying hair. "Would that it were that simple, Cuthbert," he said. "However, it is not. As Sir Gunther has pointed out, we are in enemy territory. Quite possibly, _deep_ in enemy territory. We do not know exactly how many they are, nor do we know precisely _where_ they are. But I would wager that they know a great deal about us. I am quite sure they have been watching our movements, that they know where we are encamped, and roughly how many we are. They do not know of the princess's arrival, thank God, but I can tell you this: if a party of men detaches from our main body and rides for the castle, those men will never leave these woods. The outlaws will see them go, and they will fall upon them, and either capture or kill them. No matter how well-armed, an escort party would be too vulnerable… not to mention, by reducing our numbers, it would weaken the rest of us as well. No." He shook his head. "That is not the answer."

"Then send her back on Dragon," Cuthbert insisted. "He brought her _here_ , he can take her back ag –"

"You must be thinking of a different dragon, shortlife," came a drawling voice from just outside the tent flap, where Dragon lay resting and listening to the discussion within the tent. " _This_ dragon is not going anywhere. I never consented to carry the girl here; she stowed away without my knowledge. And I certainly will not consent to turn around and carry her right _back_ again. I waited three days as I was asked – I did not want to, but I saw the sense in it so I complied. But now that I _am_ here, I _stay_ here – until this bloody business is resolved once and for all."

"I agree that now Dragon has joined us, he should remain with us," said Sir Theodore, "so here are the alternatives that are left to us; either the princess remains, under heavy guard, kept as safe as we can manage in the heart of our host, or… we _all_ turn around and go back, together."

Gunther, Cuthbert and Lavinia all started to talk at once, but Sir Theodore lifted a hand to silence them, with such an air of authority that all three of them ceased speaking as suddenly as they'd begun.

"I must think on this," the old knight said. "Go and try to rest, all of you. Return at first light and we will talk more."

They ducked out into the crisp night air, and parted ways. Cuthbert led Lavinia off toward the very center of the camp, where he'd been bedded down. Though the prince hadn't been very happy about it, four guards had been assigned the duty of watching over him as he slept, every night since the company had set out. He _was_ the king's son, after all. Lavinia would now join him in his protected enclave at the heart of the encampment… whether she particularly wanted to, or not.

Jane breathed deep, struggling for composure, trying to settle herself. It felt as though her heart had not stopped racing since the moment she'd cut that queer bundle loose from Dragon, and the bundle had _yelped_.

She raked her hair as Sir Theodore had done, only Jane did it both-handed.

"I never thought," she began, not sure if she was talking to herself or Gunther, who had started away, but turned back at the sound of her voice. "Lavinia can be impulsive, yes," she said miserably, "and I knew she was unhappy about being left behind. But I never _dreamed_ she would do something so irresponsible, so recklessly dangerous."

"Did you not?" Gunther asked, in acid tones. "I, for one, am not surprised in the least. Look at the _role model_ she has, after all."

And he turned and stalked away.


	19. Chapter 19

Despite her ever-increasing anxiety and stress, Jane slept better that night than she had since leaving the castle, because she slept beside Dragon.

She was up before first light, making her way back to the command tent to continue the council session that had begun after Lavinia's unexpected – to say the least – arrival the night before.

There was little left to be said, as it happened. Most of the dilemma had been talked through the previous night. Sir Theodore felt, however reluctantly, that the best thing to do was to keep the princess with them, well-guarded in the heart of the company. And the others, however reluctantly, agreed.

Lavinia was naturally slim, but being sixteen, she had certainly begun to develop a woman's curves. It was decided that she would be given heavily padded clothing to wear, along with a hooded cloak beneath which she could conceal her hair. Hopefully she would pass for an adolescent boy – a squire, perhaps. As long as no one looked _too_ closely, at any rate.

Nobody was at all happy about the situation, except perhaps Lavinia herself, but even she seemed subdued in the light of morning – doubtless a result of reading the moods of those around her.

Dragon had taken flight shortly after dawn. He'd be unable to walk through the increasingly thick woods, and would spend the day flying overhead. Sir Theodore had frowned and sighed as Dragon had lifted into the rose-colored sky.

"If they truly did not believe we had a dragon, they know differently now," he'd said, turning away.

Within an hour of Dragon's departure they broke camp, determined to push on, deeper into the forest. They were closing on the outlaws, tension had been building steadily amongst them during their march, and almost to a man, they had reached the point where they simply wanted to get this thing over and done with.

They _wanted_ confrontation; they _wanted_ combat; they wanted _closure_ , and an end to their march, and to turn around and go home, victorious.

Those were the things they wanted. It remained to be seen what they would get.

* * *

In some ways, it ran like a repeat of the much smaller expedition that Jane and Gunther had led three years ago. They pushed on through the trees and undergrowth searching for, and finding, increasingly fresh evidence of human presence in the woods. It was just the scale of the operation that had changed; the fact that they had many times as many men with them… and that there were many times as many outlaws, too. It made the signs easier to read – instead of one cold campfire, they were like to come upon a dozen. Instead of looking for a broken branch here or there, they encountered wide swaths of trampled ground where a goodly number of men had pushed through before them. But their own increased numbers slowed them; the relative simplicity of tracking a larger host was counterbalanced by the complications of _being_ a larger host.

They stopped for a quick, cold noon-day meal near a small river. The trees pulled back from the bank enough that Dragon was able to land nearby, though not without some difficulty.

Jane, not knowing when she'd be like to get the chance again, decided to fly with him after lunch, instead of resuming her march with the company. Gunther continued to behave as if she weren't there, so why _should_ she be? For a couple of hours at least, she would forsake the company of other human beings for that of her best friend.

She scanned the upturned faces beneath her as she and Dragon took off, seeking and finding Gunther's amongst them. She glimpsed him – small and getting smaller – staring up at her as she spiraled into the sky. The expression he wore – mingled frustration and anxiety and longing, vying with his deep-seated predisposition to show nothing at all – was it really there, or just a projection of her mind? She didn't know.

Once airborne, she realized just how limited Dragon's ability to keep track of their company, as it moved through the forest, really _was_. A couple dozen men had decided to lunch along the riverbank, between the trees and water, and those she could see just fine, even from far above. But the rest of their numbers, who had remained beneath the shade of the trees, were nothing short of invisible. They might as well not have existed, for all she could tell. She found it profoundly unsettling; in fact, it preyed on her mind so much that although she'd fully intended to fly with Dragon for two hours or more, she asked him to take her back after barely thirty minutes in the air.

And it was well that she did so – or perhaps it was ill. It was life-altering, in any event.

Because when they reached that stretch of riverbank again, it was to find the entire company embroiled in open battle.


	20. Chapter 20

" _No!_ " It was a scream inside her head, but all that passed her lips was a sick little whisper. "Oh, no." And then a bare second later, finding her voice, "Dragon, get me down there, _get me down there now, NOW!_ "

"Hold on!" Dragon yelled, and they banked into a near-vertical dive, arrowing for the ground as Dragon _whooshed_ in a great breath of air, almost, Jane thought, as if he intended to –

" _NO!_ " She screamed, and this time it really _was_ a scream – "NO, Dragon, _no fire_ , are you mad!? They are all tangled up together, theirs and ours both, and anyway, the _trees_ – just get me down there, oh my God, Gunther, I have to find _Gunther_ –"

She had never felt so sick with fear in all her life. Why, oh dear sweet God, _WHY_ , why had she had to go and _leave_ them, what had she been _thinking_ – she had to find her _husband._ His name was beating in time to her heart, and her heart was _racing_.

 _GuntherGuntherGuntherGUNTHER_ …

Dragon swallowed the gout of flame he'd been about to let loose. "Sorry Jane – automatic reaction."

She would have told him it was all right, but there wasn't time. They were already approaching the ground. Dragon couldn't land among the trees, but nor could he land along the riverbank; that small amount of open space was roiling with combatants. He actually touched down in the middle of the river itself; it was a small one, and shallow; no more than knee-deep on Jane. This she discovered for herself as she slid off her friend's back a second later.

"Jane –" Dragon sounded wretched. "There is not much I can _do_ here, not with the trees and everyone on top of one another –"

"I know," she said grimly, yanking her sword free and turning toward the shore. "It is all right. It will be all right." She had to believe that. _Had_ to.

"Jane!" he shouted after her as she splashed toward the shore, toward the _fight_ – "be careful! _Please!_ "

* * *

She emerged from the water at as close to a run as she could manage, scattering bright droplets in her wake. Her eyes were scanning, desperately scanning – searching for Sir Theodore, Cuthbert, Lavinia, Smithy – but most of all, for her husband. For Gunther.

There were men struggling with each other everywhere, in pairs and knots ranged up and down the riverbank, and under the trees as well. All around was the clash of steel, grunts and cries, punctuated now and again by the thrum of a bowstring, or the _thuck_ of a sword or staff whacking against a shield, or the high, panicked whinny of a horse.

A riderless horse nearly ran her down, eyes white and rolling in terror, the shaft of an arrow protruding from its haunch. Jane stumbled and swore, and then one of the outlaws was upon her, slashing with a dagger. He didn't even _have_ a sword, and Jane made short work of him.

"How many are you?" she demanded as the man slid off her sword, dying. It was her first kill and she had wondered how that would affect her, but now that the moment was here she found all she cared about was gathering any information she possibly could, to help herself and those she loved.

"Too… many… for you, wench," the man rasped, then coughed and spat a gob of blood at her foot.

She went down on one knee beside him. " _How MANY!?_ "

"Five dozen or so… but we know these woods… these are _our_ woods." He paused, grimaced, and then said something that made Jane feel as if her entire being had just been doused in ice-water. "And once… we get hold… of your precious little princess…"

" _What?_ " She expelled the word the way a person expels a breath when kicked hard in the gut – because she felt as if she'd just _been_ kicked hard in the gut. She grabbed a fistful of his dirty tunic. "How do you… know that she…"

The outlaw grinned up her, a red horror of a grin. His mouth was full of blood. "A little bird told us," he gurgled. "You have… a little bird in your ranks, wench. A sneaky… little… bird."

And so saying, he died.

* * *

(A/N: yay, I finally managed to get my cover art for "Mistakes" uploaded, and my cover art for this one uploaded too! It's about time - I thought there was something wrong with the site, but I guess there was something wrong with my POS old-ass computer! Got a new computer now = happy girl! :) Anyway, I think I write better than I draw, but still excited to get my cover art up for these two fics.)


	21. Chapter 21

She glanced around, quickly taking stock of what was going on and where. The most intensive fighting seemed to be happening a short distance away, in amongst the trees. Her now-bloodied sword in hand, she moved that way.

The next several minutes passed in a blur of snarling faces and sweaty bodies and the clash of weapons as Jane fought her way past one opponent after another, praying for Gunther but _searching_ for Lavinia.

She bested all three of the men who stepped into her path, but not without cost. The first left her with a gash on her hip to remember him by – not deep, but painful in a bright, throbbing way, and bloody. The second went for her throat and drew a line of fire along her collarbone; a long scratch that soaked the edge of her jerkin with blood, pasting it against her skin, smearing her neck and shoulder crimson.

No blood was spilled in the third encounter – well, none of _Jane's_ blood, at any rate – but it left her more shaken than the others combined. This particular combatant stood easily a head and a half taller than Jane and outweighed her by a hundred pounds, at least. She got the best of him too, in the end, because despite having the advantage of size, he moved slowly and fought predictably. He did manage to land one blow, though, just as Jane was in the act of taking him down – and that one blow was… severe.

It happened right as he began to fall – it was not an intentional blow, so it didn't have _all_ of his strength behind it – there was that much to be grateful for. But as he flailed, a ham-sized fist, holding the pommel of a very heavy great-sword, crashed into Jane's temple with staggering force.

Stars burst across her vision, followed quickly be a bloom of darkness like a reverse sunburst, followed by more stars, in disorientingly rapid succession.

Blinking her eyes, she shook her head to clear it, only to realize that she was on her knees on the ground with no inkling of how she'd gotten down there – she had no memory of falling. She raised her hand and pressed it to her temple, sucking in a sharp little breath as she did so… but when she lowered it again, it came away free of blood. Grimy and slightly unsteady, but free of blood. She released a shaky breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

A quick check of her fallen opponent confirmed that he was dead. She started to push herself back to her feet, then stopped. The blow she'd just taken to her temple hadn't been good, but it could have been much worse. _Worlds_ worse. If he had struck even a little harder, she could be unconscious now. Or _dead_.

The man she'd just killed was wearing a helm – rusted and dented and sure to be ridiculously huge on her, but a helm nonetheless. She decided it would make a great deal of sense to claim it for herself.

A brief spate of tugging later, the prize was hers. She settled it in place, nose crinkling with disgust. In addition to being very heavy, the thing smelled appalling; a sour, rank odor of stale sweat and greasy, unwashed hair. _Oh God_ , she thought fleetingly, _please do not let him have lice!_

But none of that was important. The _protection_ it afforded her was what mattered.

She got back to her feet, stuffing her bright hair up underneath the helm – more than one of the men she'd engaged with had made a grab for it; best to get it safely out of the way. That done, she retrieved her sword – then, breathing hard, glanced around herself wondering which direction to strike out in next. And froze for a moment as her gaze lit upon –

"Princess," she whispered. She actually staggered a bit, so intense was the relief that crashed over her, a wave of emotion that nearly threatened to knock her off her feet.

Or was it the blow to her head doing that?

 _Oh hell and maggots. NO. It was not that serious. It_ cannot _have been that serious. I will not_ let it _. I refuse!_

She couldn't afford to be incapacitated right now. It simply wasn't an option. Keeping her sword at the ready, she moved swiftly to intercept Lavinia.

The princess wasn't alone, either, which was another source of considerable relief for Jane. She was in the company of both Cuthbert and Smithy; in fact, Jane saw when she got a little closer, Lavinia and Smithy were supporting Cuthbert between them.

A fair amount of Jane's relief evaporated when she realized _that_.

But at least there was this much to be said; Lavinia's disguise was holding up beautifully. Jane only recognized her because she knew what to look for. To the common observer, there was nothing even remotely feminine about the princess's appearance in that moment. The heavy, padded clothing she was wearing straightened the lines of her body so that she passed easily for male. A slim male, and young, but male nonetheless. Thank God for _that_ , anyway.

"What happened?" Jane demanded, reaching them.

Smithy said, "Jane!"

Cuthbert said, " _nothing!_ "

Lavinia said, "arrow"... and Jane's blood turned to ice in her veins.


	22. Chapter 22

She staggered again, her knees nearly buckling in that second of absolute, breathtaking horror. "Show me," she said, and her demand came out as nothing more than a gasp. In that instant she did not even have the strength to put her voice behind her words.

In that instant, it was all she could do to keep from collapsing.

Lavinia pulled something out from beneath her oversized cloak and thrust it toward Jane with a badly shaking hand. "I am sorry," she said, as Cuthbert angled a seething, sideways glare at her. "I know I should not have pulled it out, but I thought… I was afraid… if there was something _on_ it… if it… if…" she choked off and swallowed convulsively, twin tears suddenly streaking down her face.

If there had been something on it, Jane knew, the damage would have been done instantaneously, no matter how quickly the arrow had been pulled out. But – thank God, oh _thank GOD_ – she saw right away that the arrow Lavinia was holding was an ordinary one.

"It is all right," she said, raising her eyes to once again meet the younger girl's. This arrow is not… it will be all right."

The princess made a sound halfway between a hiccup and a sob, then dropped her face to Jane's grimy, bloody shoulder, shuddering and struggling to regulate her breathing.

"Where?" Jane asked Cuthbert over Lavinia's head, trying hard to keep a handle on her own panic. The arrow wasn't poisoned, but then, an arrow hardly had to be poisoned in order to cause grave harm. Mortal harm, potentially. " _Where were you hit?_ "

"Leg," he grunted, unhelpfully.

"It hit muscle," Smithy elaborated. "In his outer thigh. Missed the artery, thank God. Hurts like a bastard, I am sure, but it should not cause any permanent damage, so long as…" he trailed off, seeming no more able to come out and say the words than Lavinia had been.

"It is an ordinary arrow," Jane said, dropping it on the ground as she spoke. "Smithy –"

"That way," he told her, knowing exactly what she was asking without needing to hear another word. He jerked his chin to show the direction he meant. "On his feet and holding his own just fine, or at least he was a few minutes ago."

"Thank you," Jane breathed, but before she could say anything else, Smithy cut his eyes toward Lavinia and said, "They know. These men, the outlaws, I heard them talking, they know about –"

"I know," Jane said.

"What do we _do?_ "

Jane shot an agonized look in the direction that Smithy had indicated, then steeled herself and said, "we get these two to Dragon. He is in the water, it was the only place he could land. He will fly them out. Come on."

And she turned back the way she had come.

OOOOO

They were just yards from the riverbank when they heard the shout of, "look, the girl! There, _there!_ "

"No," Jane whispered, horrorstruck, turning to see two outlaws running toward them. Yet another joined them even as she watched. _No, God, no, not now! How can they tell!?_

An instant later though, she realized that the focus of the men bearing down on them was not in fact Lavinia, but _herself_.

 _They think_ I _am the princess!_

And why not? Great pains had been taken to disguise Lavinia's femininity, but Jane had made no such efforts on her own behalf. Her clothes were fairly form-fitting, the better to move and fight in. And while no one would ever describe Jane as _buxom_ , she _was_ a woman – with a woman's essential shape.

And then there was the helm she'd so recently put on. If the brigands had even the faintest notion of what Lavinia was meant to look like, Jane's masses of coppery curls would have instantly shown that she was not the girl they sought. But that beacon-bright hair had all been stuffed up beneath the helm; it couldn't betray her now.

All of this flashed through her mind in a split second, followed by the thought, _I can use this. I can USE this!_

"Get them to Dragon," she said to Smithy, in a low, intense voice. Tell him I am fine, and to take them to safety. Tell him _please_ , please do it, for me! Tell him… tell him it…"

Her mind raced, frantic. Dragon would not want to go anywhere without _her_. He would be _fiercely_ opposed to the suggestion. But he had to. He _had_ to. What message could she give that would convince him of the necessity?

"Tell him I… I have my sword, that I will wait just long enough for him to get them to safety, a quarter hour, say… and then I will signal him so he will know I am all right, and can find me. Tell him I will be fine, but _they will not_ , not unless he… just make him see, Smithy, you _have_ to make him _see!_ "

The outlaws were almost upon them then, and there was no more time for talk. She spun away from Smithy, putting some distance between herself and the actual royal heirs, the entire future of the kingdom's succession hanging in the balance. Smithy even had the presence of mind to shout, "Princess, _NO!_ Come _back!_ " Jane gave an inward smile at that little touch - only for a fraction of a second, though. Smithy had played _his_ part; now it was time to play hers.

"Get away from me!" she screamed at the brigands. "Leave me _alone!_ "

She pitched her voice considerably higher than normal; a panicked, "terrified maiden" sort of cry. A cry intended to convey helplessness and terror; to mark her as easy prey.

And it worked.

Without a second glance at the _real_ princess, the men came barreling after Jane.

She fled back toward the trees.


	23. Chapter 23

The men were fairly close behind her; outrunning them wasn't an option, not really. As soon as she judged she had put a safe amount of distance between herself and the true prince and princess, enough distance that they were out of immediate danger, she spun and engaged her pursuers.

Although it was three-to-one, Jane had two important things going for her. First, the men had apparently been instructed to take Lavinia alive, because they immediately began attempting to disarm and incapacitate her, but not to actually harm her. And second, she had a rather intense element of surprise on her side, because given her performance a moment ago, it was clear that they expected no real resistance whatsoever.

She struck the first one down almost before he knew what hit him.

She had leapt back and dropped into a defensive position, ready to take on the other two, when the sound of wingbeats made her glance toward the sky. There, rising above the tops of the trees a short distance away, she caught a quick glimpse of Dragon flying off – with Cuthbert and Lavinia clinging to his back.

 _Oh, thank God. Thank God, thank GOD!_

Relief swamped her, but it was short-lived. The two remaining brigands were upon her then, and she barely had time to refocus and get her sword up, before she was fully immersed in combat once more.

They were hardly impressive warriors, and Jane could doubtless have bested either one of them in seconds, just as she had their compatriot… but the fact that they came at her together, as a united front, complicated matters somewhat.

She was not concerned, not really – but she _did_ suddenly find herself putting forth rather more effort than she had anticipated; more effort than she had yet needed to expend on any of her adversaries, other than the behemoth whose helm she had appropriated.

Still, she was holding her own and, in fact, had started to beat them back, when a snarling, black-haired blur came exploding out from between the trees to her left, and literally _hurled_ itself onto the nearer of her two opponents. They fell together, _rolled_ together, the outlaw's sword flying out of his hand as he impacted the ground, leaving him defenseless against this savage new assailant, who made short work of him.

 _GUNTHER!_

Jane administered a final blow to her own remaining opponent just as Gunther scrabbled back to his feet, facing her. They stared at each other, grey eyes locked on green, breathing hard, for a span of seconds that felt like an eternity.

Then, "hello," she said, unsteadily.

"Jane." His voice was gravelly, tortured. "You… I… heard you scream, you sounded… I have never heard you sound like… I thought you… oh, my God, _Jane_ –"

"No," she said. It came out as a croak, so she swallowed hard and tried again, got a little more force behind her words. "I was _acting_. Gunther. Acting. They took me for the princess, so I… I played along, to draw them away from where… where she really was. They _know_ about her, Gunther, someone told. So I had to… I had to… act."

"Had to act," Gunther echoed, his voice flat, distant somehow. He sounded utterly dazed, and more than that… he sounded _drained_. Drained dry.

He reached to shove a hank of sweat-soaked hair back, out of his eyes, and that was when Jane realized, her _own_ eyes widening in sudden horror, that his entire arm was… was just… _sheeted_ in blood, coated with it from his bicep to his fingertips, which left a shocking scarlet smudge on his forehead.

He swayed on his feet then, throwing out his _un_ bloodied arm to steady himself against a nearby tree.

"Oh, no." The words were wrenched out of her in a sick little exhalation, and then she was moving, throwing herself across the few feet of distance that separated them, needing to touch him, feel him, assess his wound, needing her arms around him in that moment like she had never before needed anything in her _life_.

She didn't intend to knock him clear off his feet, but that's what happened. They fell together and ended up on their knees, holding each other with bone-crunching intensity, Jane's still-helmed head resting on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around him so hard she _had_ to be restricting his ability to breathe, the fingers of her left hand splayed out between his shoulder blades, her right hand dragging up the back of his neck to tangle her fingers in his hair and yank his head down so it crashed into _her_ shoulder the way hers had crashed into his. She gasped and stiffened then, because it was her _injured_ shoulder – but she was past caring, past reason of any kind in that moment.

Gunther's response was to tighten his arms about her still further, a frantic, almost convulsive motion that made her gasp again; it hurt to be held so hard, but she wouldn't have traded it for anything, not for _anything_.

"Jane," he groaned against her hot, sweaty, grimy, bloodied skin, with a depth of raw emotion in his voice that might have driven her to her knees… had she not already been there. He turned his head, just slightly, his lips moving against her skin, until he found the little hollow where her shoulder met her throat, just beneath the rim of her stolen helm, and pressed a kiss there.

Her whole body shuddered. And then he was pushing her back, holding her at arm's length, and both of them were devouring each other with their eyes, taking in all the hurts, all the cuts, the bruises, dirt, blood.

"Your arm, oh my God, Gunther, your _arm_ –"

"Nothing. A scratch, it just –"

"No, are you mad!? Gunther, the _blood_ –"

"Jane, hush, it is shallow, I promise, but _you_ – your shoulder –" his voice was shaking. The hand he raised to trace the cut along her collarbone was shaking too. "Who did this?" he asked, with black murder in his eyes. " _Who did this to you?_ "

Despite everything, a little chuff of laughter escaped her. "He is _dead_ , Gunther."

"How many?" His voice was hoarse, cracked around the edges. "How many did you…?"

Jane frowned, trying to remember. "Four? No…" she shook her head. Her last truly clear memory was of vaulting off Dragon's back and into the water, unsheathing her sword as she did so. Everything after that was all mashed together in her mind, jumbled up and tinged the color of blood. "Six? Maybe? I do not… what about you?"

"Five before I heard you scream, but after that I…" he broke off, swallowed hard. "After that, everything just… I do not even know. I… God, you… I am going to hear that in my _nightmares_."

She opened her mouth to reassure him, again, that the panic in her voice had been false, had been just… a _tool_ that she had used, a means to an end – but then he was yanking her to him again, and there followed a long moment where they simply held each other, and Jane was just gathering herself to tell him that they really needed to get back into the fray, to find out what was going on all around them, and find Sir Theodore if they could, and Smithy, and, and she needed to signal _Dragon_ , and…

And then the voice spoke from behind and above her, a cold, malignant, almost _slithering_ sort of voice. And she knew that voice; recognition flared, even as a cold, sick wave of dread engulfed her.

"Will you look at this, lads? Most touching thing I have seen all day."

Gunther stiffened against her and Jane raised her head, knowing it was going to be bad, but still unprepared for just _how_ cataclysmically awful the situation actually was.

They were ringed in by steel – eight swords at least, naked and glinting sullenly in the filtered light beneath the trees. Sometime within the past minute or two, while they'd been caught up in each other, focused on their reunion, blind to all else, they'd been completely surrounded.

The man who had spoken was the same one that had bandied words with Sir Theodore the other day, when he had blocked the road and halted their column mid-march. The one who had made suggestive comments about Jane herself, and taunted Gunther nearly past sanity.

Jane had to struggle against a sudden surge of nausea. She literally felt in danger of throwing up, and lightheaded with horror. She just knew, with every fiber of her being, that things were about to be bad. Very, _very_ bad. Worse than she had ever known.

She wasn't wrong.

"Let us get our little royal prize on her feet and out of that helm," the outlaw commander said. "I simply _must_ gaze upon the fair princess's face."


	24. Chapter 24

Jane started to get to her feet, slowly, feeling suddenly numb, nearly drugged with horror. Her Dragon Sword lay on the ground where she'd dropped it when she'd flung herself into Gunther's arms. She thought about making a grab for it, but discarded the idea. They'd been caught completely off-guard and were disastrously outnumbered. They could not win, so why needlessly provoke their enemies?

Gunther, however, appeared to have no such qualms. Moving so fast that she could barely even track him, let alone stop him, he dove for his own weapon, came up with sword in hand, grabbed her by the shoulder with bruising intensity, shoved her behind him, up against the trunk of a tree, and dropped into a defensive stance, wild-eyed and panting.

"Touch her and die," he snarled.

The man who had spoken quirked an eyebrow, then made a show of glancing around at all his comrades before returning his cool gaze to Gunther. "Have you noticed how many of us there _are?_ " he asked, that taunting, provoking tone back in his voice. "One or two of us may die, but not _all_ of us – you, however, most assuredly _will_ , and we will claim the girl in the end, either way. Your devotion to your princess is admirable, and I would rather _not_ take your life for it – you are bound to bring a good ransom. So drop your weapon, sir knight, and stand aside. I will not ask again."

Gunther tensed still further. Jane wouldn't have believed that possible, but he had forever been challenging her perceptions, ever since they'd been children. She heard his sharp intake of breath and knew that his eyes had just narrowed to slits. He gave his head a single, slow, deliberate shake, just once, from side to side.

The outlaw sighed, shrugged, and said, "As you will, sir knight. All right, lads – remove him."

" ** _NO!_** "

That single syllable held ten times the raw panic that had gone into her earlier shout, the one that had shaken Gunther so badly – because this time she wasn't acting, this time the panic was very real – sharp and bright and gutwrenching and soul-deep.

And suddenly it was Jane who was shoving _Gunther_ behind her, moving with adrenaline-fueled speed and strength, darting out from the protected little space he'd engineered for her, throwing herself in front of him, arms flung out to the sides, shielding as much of him as she could with her body, pressing _him_ back against the bole of the tree, his shocked curses hissing in her ear.

They were willing to cut through him to get to her, but surely they wouldn't cut through her to get to _him_ – not when they thought she was Lavinia.

But she had never felt so small as she did in that instant, so woefully inadequate – he was so much _bigger_ than she was, she wanted so desperately to cover every inch of him, to keep him safe, and she couldn't do it, it was a physical impossibility.

But it appeared that she had achieved her objective, as the men around her were lowering their weapons, suddenly uncertain.

Gunther, meanwhile, made another frantic, heaving attempt to push past her, to no avail. "NO!" she shouted a second time, hoarsely, and threw herself backward against him, literally slamming him into the tree trunk. "Do not make me watch you die," she rasped in a lower voice, pitching it for his ears only. "Do not do that, Gunther. It would break me. It would _break_ me!"

Gunther sucked in a shallow, jagged breath, about to reply, when the outlaw spoke again, this time addressing Jane.

"That was well done, princess. Now step away from him and so long as he drops his weapon, you both will live. You have my word."

Feeling as though she was moving in a dream – (because this couldn't _truly_ be happening, could it? _Could_ it?) – she stepped away from Gunther. He made an inarticulate sound of despair and grabbed for her nearer hand, catching and holding it with a desperate, fierce strength.

She turned, moving slowly and deliberately; the air itself seemed somehow thicker all of a sudden. Preternaturally still. Heavy. _Viscous_.

She met his eyes and the depth of terror and helplessness and grief she saw there made her feel as if she were falling, as if the very earth had opened up beneath her and sent her tumbling into darkness, spiraling down and down, endlessly.

 _He is looking at me like I am already dead_ , she thought, fresh horror crashing over her, beating at her like waves on the shore. _He thinks this is the end._ Is _it?_

 _Please, no. I have to find a way to save him. I_ have _to._

She swallowed. Her throat made an awful, dry little clicking sound. She squeezed his hand, although he was holding on to _hers_ so tightly already that she couldn't imagine he would actually feel it.

"It is all right," she said, trying to sound calm, trying to sound as if she actually believed those empty words, when the irrefutable truth was that _NOTHING_ was all right in this moment, nothing. "Put it down. Gunther. The sword, put… put it _down._ We are going to get through this. We are. Do not throw your life away. Please. _Please_."

God, it was hard. It was so hard to speak this language of defeat. If it had been only her own life at stake, she would _never_ have capitulated. She would have fought these men with everything she had. There could be no real hope of victory against so many, but every scrap of strength, every shred of will, every breath she had left to her would have gone into taking as many of them with her as she possibly could.

But it _wasn't_ only her own life at stake. Gunther's life hung just as much in the balance – actually _more_ , for as long as the outlaws believed she was the princess, at any rate. And to protect Gunther, she would do anything. Anything at all.

Even yield.

It still didn't look as if Gunther had reached that point of acceptance, though – and who knows what might have happened next, except that at this point Jane was removed enough from him that, with a quick lunge, the lead outlaw grabbed her and yanked her away from him completely, her fingers slipping from her husband's grasp as the man pulled her hard up against him and pressed his sword to her throat.

" _Now_ drop that sword," he growled at Gunther. And this time, Gunther complied.

Jane, cold steel biting at her throat, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, watched Gunther go from flushed to ashen-grey in a heartbeat's worth of time. He more than dropped the sword, he _threw_ it down, as if it had suddenly burned him. Then he spread his arms very slowly out to his sides.

"Anything," he said, his voice so rough it was little more than a croak. "Anything you say, just _do not hurt her_."

"It would hardly be in my best interest to harm her," the outlaw said, as two of his men grabbed Gunther's arms and forced them behind his back. "Although I must say, the way you are carrying on, one would almost think you are in _love_ with the girl." He lowered the sword from Jane's neck; she felt a scratchy sort of warm tickle where the blade had been, and realized that it must have broken her skin, at least a little. Gunther's eyes were glued to her throat, and they were burning; ablaze with fury and despair.

"I admit I am surprised," the man continued, conversationally, as he took hold of her helm. "When we met the other day, you seemed _most_ devoted to that orange-haired sword-wench, who, incidentally, I would not mind –"

And then he tugged the helm off her head, and her hair spilled free, and the deception was done with.

* * *

There was a moment of stunned silence as the brigands absorbed what they were seeing. Then, sounding more bewildered in that moment than anything else, the man who was holding her said, "you… are not the princess."

"I never said I was," Jane replied, shaking her sweat-dampened hair out of her eyes.

Fingers digging into her painfully, he spun her to face him. His grip on her hurt, but losing sight of Gunther hurt more. Then the man thrust his face right up to hers, putting them nearly nose to nose, and he no longer appeared bewildered – no, the word that described him _now_ was apoplectic. He was purple with rage.

" _WHERE – IS – SHE!?_ " he spat in her face.

"Gone," Jane said flatly. "Dragon flew her out. They are leagues away by now."

His face contorted, and Jane had just a split second's worth of sharp satisfaction at his expression of impotent, frustrated wrath, and then he took a single step away from her –

And backhanded her across the face with shocking, explosive force.

He was wearing a heavy leather gauntlet, which struck her in the temple – the same temple that had already sustained a blow earlier in the fighting.

And then she really _was_ falling – Gunther's hoarse, frantic, furious shouts ringing in her ears.


	25. Chapter 25

A moment later – or it could have been an hour, or a day – she was so disoriented at this point that she couldn't have said with any certainty – she was yanked roughly back to her feet.

Her legs promptly gave out, spilling her into the very man who had struck her. He hauled her upright once more, then leaned close and spoke in her ear. "You are going to walk, sword-wench, because if you do not, it is not _you_ I am going to hurt. It is _him_."

Jane stiffened, sucking in a hurt little breath.

"Do we understand each other?" the man asked, moving around behind her.

"Yes," Jane whispered. She raised a hand to press it gingerly to her temple, swaying a bit on her feet as she did so – but a second later he had grabbed _both_ her hands, wrenching her arms behind her back and binding them.

"That is good, Lady Jane," he said, jerking the ropes brutally tight, causing her to wince and then stagger yet again. He leaned into her then, so that when next he spoke, his lips were actually moving _against_ her ear.

"I am Hugh, my _lady_ ," he murmured, twisting the last word into a mockery – an insult. "I am Marten's –"

"Right hand man, yes I know, we have covered this before," Jane said, just wanting to be done with the conversation, wanting desperately for him to back the hell _off_ her.

The next thing she knew, he'd wound a fist in her hair and then clenched it, hard. She gasped, tears springing to her eyes, but managed to keep from crying out.

"Now that was not very ladylike behavior, sword-wench," he hissed, "cutting a man off like that. You have quite the high opinion of yourself, hm? Well never fear, I have a cure for that. You and I are going to engage in some _very_ vigorous swordplay when we get back to camp… although the only one with a… _sword_ … will be me, if you catch my meaning."

He gave a low chuckle as Jane, who caught his meaning perfectly well, shuddered with helpless revulsion. Then, "shall we invite your… friend… to watch?" he asked, and she had to swallow back a sob.

 _This is not happening. This_ cannot _be happening. I hit my head and passed out, this is a nightmare, and the fighting is going on all around me, and I have to_ wake up _. Please God, let me WAKE UP!_

Then he released her hair, shoved her hard right between the shoulder blades, and snarled, " _walk!_ " and there was nothing to do but comply.

One foot in front of the other. Not steady, no, but not in imminent danger of falling down again… at least, she didn't think so. Although everything seemed very distant somehow, very… disjointed.

Unreal.

 _That is because I am dreaming this – it is the worst dream I have_ ever had _and oh God_ please _, it is time to wake up now, I have to wake up!_

No such luck, however. She could hear Gunther still trying to shout to her, but his voice was muffled now. She assumed they had gagged him, but she didn't look. She _couldn't_ look.

On an emotional level, seeing him in this moment would _completely_ unravel her. She didn't think she could stand it.

On a purely physical level, she was afraid to turn her head. The world was still so… _wavery_ around the edges, somehow. Blurry. Indistinct. She could keep herself steady enough, she thought, as long as she faced front… but she was attuned enough to her body to know that swinging her head around now would cause a rush of disequilibrium strong enough to land her on her knees, if not lay her out flat.

It was enough to know that he was still alive and capable of making noise. It would _have_ to be enough, for now.

She heard her captor shout at one of his men, "and get that sword she dropped! It looks to be worth a small fortune!"

 _The Dragon Sword!_ Jane's heart skipped a beat at that. _That_ meant something. That was important. As long as the sword remained near her, there was a chance she could get her hands on it again. And if she did, she'd only need a moment.

They'd hurt her for it. They might do _more_ than hurt her for it. But that didn't matter. If she could manage to call Dragon, the outlaws would be laid waste… the worse she was hurt, the more complete would be their destruction. And even if she couldn't be saved, maybe Gunther could.

 _Maybe Gunther could_.

She had to figure out a way. But she was still so… _addled_. She was finding it hard to even get a firm grip on her thoughts, much _less_ hang onto them for more than a few seconds before they went skittering away again.

She bit her lip and clenched her fists, trying to ground herself, trying to focus.

 _I can walk and think at the same time. I can, damnit, I_ can _._

She had to. There was so much at stake. She could taste blood, she was savaging her lip so hard. She _had_ to.

Please.


	26. Chapter 26

They walked until the sounds of the fighting faded behind them and any hope of being seen and rescued by Sir Theodore, and however many of their own men remained, first dwindled and then died.

They walked as the trees and undergrowth grew increasingly dense around them, the daylight more and more heavily filtered by greenery above, and any realistic hope of Dragon spotting them by happenstance from the air likewise faded away.

Jane couldn't seem to regain her coordination, for all that she gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. She found herself listing to one side repeatedly, mild dizziness a constant physical background noise as she stumbled on, it seemed, endlessly.

She knew she had to fall eventually, knew it with a dull, resigned certainty. It was still bad when it happened. She tripped over an exposed tree root and with her arms bound behind her, she had no way to steady herself or break her fall.

She went hard to her knees, twisting her ankle painfully, her teeth clacking together with the jarring impact.

Then everything just seemed to… grey out for a moment or two. She didn't lose consciousness entirely, but it was a near thing. She felt herself slumping sideways, fetching up at the base of a tree.

She gave a little groan, a tiny, despairing sound, and shook her head to clear it – but that turned out to be a mistake. Far from lessening, her sense of disequilibrium _surged_ – so intense that now it almost felt like nausea. The sound of raised voices filtered through the haze that had enveloped her, one voice in particular tugging at her consciousness, keeping her at least partially tethered to reality.

 _Gunther._

She couldn't possibly float away while he was shouting her name like that.

She forced her surroundings back into focus. Gunther was a few feet away, struggling to reach her, but his arms were bound just as hers were, and two men were holding him back besides. He still had a gag in his mouth, but she could understand him well enough despite it. He was, after all, only shouting one word.

"Jane! _Jane, JANE!_ "

"I… I am all right," she managed, for his sake. Whether it was, strictly speaking, true or not was irrelevant in that moment.

Then she was grabbed hard by the upper arm and hauled back to her feet. Her captor – _Hugh_ , she recalled dimly – shoved her into the arms of one of his men, crossed the distance to Gunther in two strides, and drove a fist into the center of his stomach with brutal force.

"NO!" Jane screamed as her husband doubled over, the wind knocked out him, struggling for air. She gave a desperate lunge, trying to reach him, only to be yanked roughly back again. The man who was holding her now was not as large or as strong as Hugh, but he was more than equal to Jane's current, badly compromised state.

A second later Hugh himself was back in front of her, grabbing her by the chin and compelling her to meet his gaze.

"I told you, did I not," he asked Jane, whose eyes were dark with panic, "that if you stopped walking he is the one I would hurt? _Well?_ Did I say that, yes or no?"

"Yes," Jane said hoarsely, forcing the word out around the hot, heavy ball of loathing that seemed to have lodged in her throat.

"And now you know that I do not make idle threats. So do we understand each other?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then I suggest you walk. Because I said to you, when we met that day on the road, that I looked forward to getting to know you a great deal better. And I am most… _anxious_ … to reach our journey's end so that can happen. So, my pretty little bauble – _move!_ "

And turning her brusquely in the direction he wished her to go, he gave her another hard shove between the shoulder blades.

She choked back a cry the first time her weight came down on her twisted ankle, but she could not – _would_ not – allow herself to falter again. Not when it was Gunther who would have to pay the price.

Limping now, she had no choice but to stumble on.


	27. Chapter 27

The outlaws' camp was hidden under thick tree cover in one of the densest parts of the wood. It was a motley collection of ragged tents and crooked lean-tos, clustered about in no particular order, shabby and disorganized. A few other men were straggling back in pairs or small groups, battered, bloodied and weary. There weren't very many of them, actually. Either these were the wounded that had hobbled away from the fighting early, or they were all that was left of the enemy force.

Jane found herself hoping savagely that they were all that were left.

Most of them seemed pretty dejected, but a few summoned the energy to send a sneer or an insult in her direction. One man spat at her and another asked Hugh, loudly, whether he might not need a hand "breaking that filly in."

Gunther snarled and tried to lunge at the rat-faced little man who'd made the offer, but he was yanked back and shoved onward.

The camp was not large in diameter, and once they'd entered it, it only took a moment for them to reach their destination; the command tent, presumably. It was somewhat bigger, though in no better repair, than any of the others.

Hugh grabbed her by the arm and manhandled her through the flap, and his underlings forced Gunther through after.

Blinking in the dim light, Jane glanced around herself in rapidly mounting desperation. The walk had been hard, the walk had _hurt_ , but still she hadn't wanted it to end. Because she had a pretty good idea that whatever was going to happen next, now that they'd reached their destination, was going to hurt more.

 _I can take it, whatever they do, whatever_ he _does, I can take it, I_ have _to, just… oh God, do not let them hurt Gunther, not him, I could not… I could not… the sword, where is the_ sword, _did they bring it, oh God, did they!? I have to find a way to get my hands on it, I_ have _to, I… I_ …

Her thoughts were so scattered, chasing themselves around in circles, and she was no closer to formulating a plan for recovering the Dragon Sword than she'd been when their forced march had begun. She recognized that using the sword to call Dragon was her best, last, and only hope – but how was she to do that? _How!?_

At least it was, indeed, nearby. The last man to enter the tent had it in hand, and gave it immediately over to Hugh, who leaned it against a support post in the corner. Jane stared at it in anguish, frantically willing her mind to work, to present her with some sort of viable strategy for seizing and using it.

Nothing would come. Nothing but a sick, stricken horror at the situation in which they'd found themselves, dizzying in its intensity.

"Tie him to the center-post," Hugh ordered the man nearest Gunther. "It is driven in deep, it should hold. Even if he struggles."

There was a malicious glee in his voice, as he spoke those words, that caused Jane's stomach to turn over. This monster in human form _wanted_ Gunther to struggle. Was going to everything he could to _ensure_ that Gunther struggled. And how would he accomplish that? But hurting _her_ , of course. By _torturing_ her, by… by…

 _Shall we invite your… friend… to watch?_

No. _No_. She couldn't let her mind go there, nothing lay that way except for raw, animal panic. She had to try and think clearly, she had to think her way out of this. Think _their_ way out of this.

And yet, the only thing her mind would give her in that moment was the words she had spoken to Gunther back when they'd first been surrounded, in an attempt to make him lower his weapon. _Do not make me watch you die! Do not do that, Gunther. It would break me. It would_ break _me!_

And what would it do to _him,_ to be forced to sit there and watch as his wife, his _wife_ , was ( _say it, say the word, go on,_ confront _it_ ) raped? Wouldn't that break _him?_

 _Gunther, I am sorry, oh God, I am so sorry_.

Slowly she became aware that Hugh was speaking to his men again.

" – expected Marten to be here, but as he has not returned yet, we will simply have to think of a way to pass the time." He grinned wickedly. "I want two of you on guard at the tent entrance – let no on in except for Marten himself. The rest of you are dismissed. The lady and I are going to get better acquainted, and I prefer to do that in privacy." He turned and shot Gunther an awful, leering look, then added, "well, _relative_ privacy anyway."

Gunther jerked against his restraints, his eyes blazing with helpless rage. Leaving Jane where she was for the moment (she was bound and hurt and exhausted, so what danger could she possibly pose?) Hugh crossed the tent with slow deliberation and hunkered down in front of him, pulling out a dagger as he did so. Jane's breath caught in her throat, but Hugh simply used the blade to slice through Gunther's gag with a swift flick of his wrist.

"Anything to say, sir knight, before we begin?" he asked, his voice dripping with saccharine-sweet fake solicitude.

 _Gunther's_ voice, when he answered, was inflectionless; completely flat, and dead with hate. "I am going to kill you," he said, speaking slowly and enunciating each word very clearly. "I am going to kill you for this."

All of Hugh's attention was focused, now, on Gunther – and the other men had exited the tent. Jane started edging toward the sword. There was little she could do with her arms bound, but it _was_ very sharp. If she could just use the edge of it to slice through the ropes…

Her wrists were tied behind her back, so she'd likely slice _herself_ in the process, but it was a risk she was absolutely willing to take. And _then_ …

Then, with her sword in hand again, everything would be different.

 _Just a little closer_.


	28. Chapter 28

Hugh snorted a contemptuous laugh, unperturbed by Gunther's words. "I hardly think you are in a position to make threats, sir knight."

"I do not make threats," Gunther said, in that same eerily, _dangerously_ calm voice. "That was a statement of fact. I am going to kill you, and you are going to die screaming."

 _Almost there_.

Jane sank to her knees beside the sword, angling her body until her wrists found the blade. True to her prediction, the first thing she did was cut herself.

She managed to stifle her gasp by biting down hard on her lip again, and repositioned her wrists so that the ropes were pressed hard against the edge of the sword. Then she began to saw at them, trying to ignore the feel of the warm blood now seeping from her newest, self-inflicted wound. It was trickling down her hand to drip from her fingertips. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered but snapping these ropes, and already she could feel the fibers letting go, one by one.

 _So close. Just a second more!_

And then –

"The only person I expect to do any screaming in the immediate future is your pretty little friend," Hugh said, and turned toward Jane with an oily smile on his face – a smile that first froze, and then died, as he realized what she was doing.

Uttering an explosive string of curses, the outlaw launched himself across the tent, yanking her away from her sword, causing her _other_ hand to get sliced in the process. Jane didn't even register this bright new flash of pain, though.

The only thing she really registered in that moment was an anguished, keening, _unbearable_ sense of frustration and injustice and loss.

No. NO! No, damnit, she'd been so _CLOSE!_

She completely lost her head then – lost any last remaining shred of composure at all. Suddenly she was fighting him with all the flagging strength she had left, as he dragged her back across the tent; twisting and kicking and writhing, not caring how futile it was, not caring that she was throwing away her last reserves of energy, not caring that with her arms still wrenched behind her she couldn't win, and the only thing she was likely to accomplish would be to fuel this monster's ego still more. Not caring. She was beyond the ability to stop herself.

He slammed her down on her back a few feet away from Gunther, who was now mounting his own equally desperate, and equally hopeless, struggle against his bonds. The impact knocked the breath out of her and made alarming black starbursts bloom across her vision. Then, before she could even try to drag in another breath, she registered that Hugh was _straddling_ her now… just as his hands closed around her throat, and started to squeeze.

And there was nothing she could do. Her arms were not only still bound, but were now pinned _beneath_ her for good measure. She was completely helpless to fight him off.

She heard Gunther shouting again, but only for a few seconds. The sound of his voice began to fade almost immediately. In fact, _everything_ began to fade. The world went grey and... and _flickery_ , somehow... and then started to slide off, sideways, into blackness and she couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't... _breathe_ …

Blinking hard, she made a final, last-ditch effort to bring Gunther back into focus. If this was how things ended, she wanted his face to be the last thing she saw. But try as she might, she couldn't seem to make any sense of his features. Everything was going too dark. Everything was spinning away.

And then the hands were gone. She dragged in a shallow, hitching, painful, _grating_ little breath. It hurt, oh God, it hurt so much. Her throat felt scraped raw. A coughing fit took her.

When it passed, and she came back into herself a little more, it was only to be confronted by a fresh wave of horror; Hugh was now running his hands with rough possessiveness all over her body. When he saw some measure of focus return to her eyes, he grinned evilly down at her.

"Well, sword-wench," he said, "feeling a little more docile now? Good – we can stop wasting time, then, and get on with things."

That was when she finally succumbed to despair. She twisted her face away, stiff coughing weakly, and tried to will herself unconscious.

Hugh's hands went to the laces of her jerkin, first fumbling, then yanking, and her eyes were dry, but oh, they were _burning_ , and then –

There was a rustle of fabric as the tent flap was pushed aside, followed by a sharp intake of breath and a voice, low but authoritative, and clearly displeased, demanding, "Just what in the _hell_ do you think you are doing!?"

Her attacker was hauled bodily off of her, protesting loudly, and then, at last, she really did sink into darkness.


	29. Chapter 29

She came back to herself when a bucketful of intensely cold water was thrown in her face.

Coughing and sputtering, she tried to jerk away from this new source of torment, only to find she was restrained to an even greater degree than she had been before. She was propped against the same support post as Gunther now, sitting at a ninety degree angle to him, their shoulders pressed together – in fact, her head had been slumped _against_ his shoulder until she'd raised it with a start when the water had hit her.

Her arms were still tied behind her, and now she was bound to the post as well, in the same way that Gunther was.

 _As_ for Gunther, she felt his body stiffen in response to her own movements, heard his sharp intake of breath as he realized that she was conscious again. Then something amazing happened – something small but something that was, under the circumstances, an incredible gift.

Despite their bonds, he somehow managed to grab her nearer hand and twine his fingers through hers, his action hidden by the angle of their bodies.

She shuddered in reaction, clamping down on his hand so hard it hurt – and he squeezed back, even harder.

Then, "here, my lady, allow me to assist you," came a voice from her other side, and another hand, one that was definitely _not_ Gunther's, pushed her sopping hair out of her eyes. Blinking, still badly disoriented, Jane turned her head and got her first look at the outlaw captain, Marten Broadcloak.

He was hunkered down in front of her, putting them more or less on eye-level; a broad-shouldered, raven-haired, dark-eyed man of perhaps thirty-five. His clothing – all of it – was as black as his hair. When he saw that he had her attention, he gave her a small smile.

"My lady, I must apologize for the behavior of my man Hugh." He gestured back over his shoulder and Jane saw Hugh standing just inside the tent flap, arms crossed over his chest and glaring murder at her. He was sporting the beginnings of a rather spectacular black eye.

"He has his uses," Marten continued, "but he is… impulsive. Also surprisingly naive, in some ways at least. For instance, assuming that you have no worth simply because you are not the princess. I would never underestimate you like that, Lady Jane. You see, unlike my second-in-command, I am fully aware that you and your _husband_ here – (a look of shock flashed across Hugh's discolored face at this) – will likely prove to be of… _significant_ value. You can rest assured that Hugh will not touch you again… without my leave."

Jane said nothing. Her head was spinning. Broadcloak stared hard at her for a moment, then flashed her that quick, cold, disconcerting smile again. And then he bent his head and took up right where Hugh had been so lately obliged to leave off – unlacing her jerkin.

" _No!_ " she croaked, trying to wrench away.

"Get your filthy hands _off_ her!" Gunther snarled, lunging against his own restraints in an effort to reach the man in black. He would have pulled his hand from Jane's but she tightened her grasp still further – something she wouldn't have believed possible a moment before. She was desperate, though. She needed that contact more than ever now. It felt like the only lifeline she had left.

Because he was working calmly and methodically, Broadcloak was able to manipulate the laces easily, unlike Hugh in his earlier lust-fueled frenzy. In a matter of seconds he had worked them quite loose. Jane's breaths were piling up, one atop another – she realized, with a queer sort of detachment, that she was beginning to hyperventilate.

This nightmare was never going to end. It was just going to keep spiraling down, into fresh depths of horror, down and down and d–

The outlaw captain pushed the leather aside, just enough to bare her shoulder – no more. "My apologies, Sir Gunther," he said calmly. "I mean no disrespect to your wife's lovely person. I simply _had_ to indulge my curiosity. Extraordinary."

And he reached out a single black-gloved finger to trace the shape of Jane's tiny silver scar.

She gasped in a shuddery breath, trying to flinch away from his touch, unable. Gaze still riveted on her shoulder, Broadcloak murmured, "no one survives one of these wounds unless Jack _intends_ him to survive. Have you even the least idea how miraculously lucky you were?"

"It was not luck," she whispered rawly. "It was Gunther."

He returned his eyes to hers, then abruptly pulled back, settling himself cross-legged on the floor a couple of feet away from her.

"Do you know why I wear all black, my lady?" he asked, changing tack completely.

Jane simply stared at him for a moment, panting, shocked and bewildered and thrown completely off-kilter, still teetering on the knife-edge of pure, mindless panic, trying to reel herself back in with only limited success.

"Wh – what?" she managed. She barely recognized her own voice. It was still little more than a painful rasp. Hugh had damaged something in her throat, it seemed.

It felt like he had damaged something in her mind, too. She couldn't clear the fog, despite the fact that she was trying, trying _hard_.

Hugh at least had been predictable in his single-mindedness. _This_ man was as changeable as sunlight on moving water, and all her instincts were screaming that he was ten times more dangerous than Hugh had _ever_ been, his gentler aspect and courteous words notwithstanding, and she couldn't keep _up_ with him, God help her, she was so… so compromised. She just _couldn't_.

"I wear black," he said, "because I am grieving. Grieving my brother, who took a wound of his own on the very same day you took yours. Sadly, he did not have your luck. Or was it only that he did not have your… Gunther?" His eyes burned into hers. "I wonder what you would do if _you_ did not have your Gunther? I loved my brother, Lady Jane, and yet I have had to learn to make my way without him, painful as it is. Perhaps it is time to settle the score and see just how well you would cope with the loss of someone _you_ love, hm?"

It was as if he'd thrown a second bucket of ice-cold water on her. Her breath caught. It almost felt as though Hugh's hands had closed back around her neck, and sheer panic was trying to claw its way up her throat and she couldn't let it, she _couldn't_ , because if she did she'd start screaming and if _that_ happened she wouldn't be able to stop herself. She would just scream, and scream, and scream forever because this man was threatening to _kill Gunther_ and she didn't think she could survive that – not, at any rate, with her sanity intact.

Then Gunther squeezed her hand again and she heard him whisper "breathe, Jane," and she managed to swallow back the terror and the panic and suck in something that at least marginally resembled a breath of air, wounded and hitching though it was.

Broadcloak, who had been watching her intently through all of this, said quietly, "I imagine you would do just about anything to prevent that, would you not, my lady?"

" _Yes_ ," Jane croaked.

"That," said the outlaw captain, "is very good news." He raised a hand and beckoned. "Now please, Hugh."

The other man stooped, picked up something that lay on the floor by his feet, and brought it over, depositing it beside his commander. When Jane saw what it was she automatically pressed herself back, as far back as she could against the unyielding wooden post. A tiny whimper was wrenched out of her. Her control was slipping. God help her, it was nearly gone.

Marten brought the quiver – for of course that's what it was, a quiver of very distinctive and recognizable arrows – onto his lap.

"I have new reason to grieve today," he said. "My friend Jack has fallen, I am told, among many others. I trust _your_ heart is not broken by the news. His legacy, however –" he pulled out an arrow, twirled it casually between his fingers – "well, _that_ endures."

He smiled at her again; a sharp, white, feral grin gleaming briefly out from his tanned and weathered face. "So here is what is going to happen, my lady. You are going to tell me what I want to know, and all will be well. Defy me, though –" abruptly he snapped the arrow in two, pouring the liquid that had been contained within the hollow shaft out onto the earthen floor. "Defy me, and you get to watch your husband die. Slowly, and in agony. All it takes is a scratch, as you well know. Do we understand each other?"

"What –" she had to break off and swallow back a wave of bile. "What do you want me to say? What do you want to _know?_ "


	30. Chapter 30

"Well," said the man in black, "this is where things get a bit sticky. You see, I do not know the right questions to ask, which admittedly puts me at somewhat of a disadvantage. Not as much of a disadvantage as _you_ , though, considering what you have hanging in the balance." He tilted the broken arrow he was holding in Gunther's direction, as if Jane needed _any_ reminding of just what exactly was on the line here. "So I think," he continued, "what we will do is this; you are simply going to _talk_ , and give me whatever information you think would… be of interest to a person in my position. And I will judge whether that information is valuable enough to buy your husband's life, or not."

"Jane, _no!_ " Gunther said, sounding as though he were gritting the words out between clenched teeth.

Broadcloak inclined his head toward him. "Hugh, remind our guest that it is impolite to interrupt."

Grinning now, Hugh moved around to stand in front of Gunther, and then delivered a vicious kick to the bound man's ribs. Jane's frantic "NO!" accomplished nothing at all. Gunther doubled over, the breath driven out of him, his hand tightening spasmodically on hers.

"Stop, _please_ ," Jane whispered wretchedly, hating that she was begging, doing it anyway. Anything to protect Gunther.

 _Anything_.

The outlaw captain waved Hugh back, and the brutish man returned to his post by the tent flap.

"I realize you are under a lot of pressure just now, Lady Jane," Broadcloak said, in a bizarrely calm and conversational tone that made Jane start to question even more seriously whether she'd somehow slipped, unknowing, into the realm of true nightmare.

This couldn't really, _actually_ be happening… _COULD it?_

"However," her captor continued, "I also have reason to believe that you are capable of performing great feats while under pressure. I have been given to understand that when you took your wound, the antidote was not administered to you for over three days… is that true? _Can_ it be true?"

"Yes," she said dully. Her vision was trying to slide out of focus again. The floor felt as if it were rocking beneath her… rocking gently, subtly… but rocking nonetheless. Her injuries and the nearly incomprehensible horror of the situation were conspiring to drag her under. Her defiance was nearly extinguished.

Marten Broadcloak grasped her by the chin, forcing her to raise her head and look at him again. "Three days before you even _got_ the antidote," he said again, emphatically. "That is at _least_ a full day past the time you should have been _dead_. You are an extraordinary woman, Jane Turnkey. I know you will not disappoint me. Especially given how _invested_ you are in the outcome of our… conversation."

He released her face from his grasp and settled back again. "I realize it must be overwhelming to be told to simply… start talking. Let us narrow things down a bit, at least to begin with. Tell me about the dragon, my lady. My men insist that you _ride_ it. How did you come by such a creature? How did you tame it?" He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed and blazing with intensity. " _How do you control it?_ "

"Dragon?" Her head was spinning. The question was so ridiculous she couldn't even really make _sense_ of it, let alone think of a way to answer it… at least, a way that wouldn't infuriate this lunatic sitting before her. And she couldn't _afford_ to infuriate him. _Gunther_ couldn't afford for her to infuriate him. What in God's name could she _say?_

"Control Dragon? I –"

And then she was given a reprieve, in the shape of a commotion just outside the tent flap.

The man in black turned and shot an annoyed look at his second-in-command. "See what that noise is about," he snapped.

Hugh stuck his head out through the flap, spoke briefly to someone on the other side, then turned and said, "it is the brother – he wants his reward."

Marten made an irritated noise. He clearly did not appreciate the interruption, but he said, "fine, bring him in –" and added, to Jane, "it will give you a moment to think."

 _Control Dragon. A moment to think_. There was something there. There _was_ , she knew there was. _Control Dragon. Think. Control Dragon. THINK!_

Marten had handed her a solution, she could sense it on a fundamental level. She just had to tease it apart.

Her captor stood and turned away toward the tent's entrance. Jane drew up her knees and dropped her forehead onto them, closing her eyes and biting her lip and willing herself to be calm, to master her panic, if she couldn't conquer it completely to at least push it to the back of her mind; tamp it down and get it under control and think through this rationally – _think!_ The answer was right in front of her; she could almost touch it, see it, _taste_ it, it was so close. She just had to reach out and grasp it.

 _Please. Oh God, please_.

It was no use. She was in complete disarray, shutting her eyes just made her vertigo – the sense that the ground was tilting and swaying beneath her – worse than ever. Plus there were raised voices over by the tent flap; they were intruding into her consciousness, destroying any last slim hope of her being able to concentrate. And then she actually began to register what was being said, and her head came back up with a jerk, eyes snapping open again, huge now in her pale and dirt-streaked face.

A young man had entered the tent, unarmed and flanked by two guards; presumably a prisoner like Jane and Gunther – although he was not bound. And Jane felt a sick, swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach because she _recognized_ this man – though actually, the term "boy" might have been more accurate. He looked to be perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old.

He'd been a part of the last group to join the company as they had marched out from the castle – a group that had almost _missed_ the company entirely. They'd met up on the road, falling in with the larger force several miles out from the castle, a dozen or so young men from some of Kippernia's more far-flung villages and farmlands. And this boy… this boy…

How could she have missed it? How could she have been so _blind?_

She had seen him… but she hadn't _seen_ him. She'd been too shocked and distraught over the falling-out she'd just had with Gunther that morning, too wrapped up in her own private angst, too focused on her forced separation from Dragon right when she'd most needed a friend to lean on, too absorbed in her fears and anxieties about what was to come.

She had failed to recognize what had been standing right in front of her.

The boy was speaking now – "did everything you asked of me, I gathered and passed on all the information I could. Now tell me where she is. That was the deal, you promised. _Tell_ me!"

Gunther, Jane now realized, had resumed his struggles, trying to wrench himself free. "you faithless little bastard," he spat. He was positively radiating fury. "you worthless, filthy traitor!"

The boy turned toward them, only now registering their presence in the tent, his eyes going wide – but not as wide as Jane's eyes as she stared _back_ at him.

"Gunther, no," she breathed, her hand clenching on his for emphasis. "No, oh God, look – _look_ at him! Can you not _see_ it!?"

The same fair skin. The same thick, dark hair. And most telling of all – the very same shockingly, dizzyingly, almost _impossibly_ blue eyes. Those bright, bright, azure-blue eyes.

Once the similarities were seen, they couldn't be unseen. Once the connection was made, there was no un-making it. Beyond the smallest shadow of a doubt, he was a very close blood relative. Almost certainly a brother; quite possibly a twin.

Marten Broadcloak had somehow roped this boy into spying for him, by promising to reunite him with his sister.

The girl who had delivered Marten's message to the castle and, so doing, had died in Jane's own arms.

 _Eleanor_.


	31. Chapter 31

For a long moment they just stared at each other, Jane and the blue-eyed boy, and then Marten looked from one to the other, saw what was going on, and burst into laughter.

"I had completely forgotten," he said, still chuckling. "Our esteemed guests here saw and spoke with the lovely Eleanor somewhat more recently than I – Lady Jane, would you care to give the lad the news he so desperately craves?"

Jane felt literally, physically ill with loathing. She actually had to fight back a rising wave of nausea. "You inhuman monster," she said, barely able to choke out the words. Her throat was still raw and painful from what Hugh had done to her, but it was constricted now too, for an entirely different reason. Constricted from the horror of what these… these _animals_ had done to this family. The utter destruction they had wreaked on these people.

Constricted by her own impotent fury in the face of it.

The boy was watching her and he must have seen the emotions flickering across her face – every one of them some variation of rage or grief – and then he understood. Jane saw the exact instant that he realized, watched the knowledge click in his eyes.

"No," he whispered.

Jane would not have thought it possible for that much agony to be packed into a single syllable. She swallowed hard and then she was blinking because it was suddenly very difficult to keep the boy's face in focus; it was blurring and doubling and _tripling_ , and then a pair of hot tears streaked down her face. She gasped and shuddered. Gunther tightened his hand around hers again, and she held on desperately, battling herself, fighting for control. She wouldn't let any more tears flow, she _wouldn't_ …

"I am… so… sorry," she said hoarsely, feeling no anger toward him at all, no betrayal, no resentment; just wishing she could fold him into her arms. Her bound, helpless arms.

Yes he'd been the informant in their midst, but he was just a child, a child who'd been put in an _impossible_ position and the sister he loved and had been trying so hard to protect had been dead the whole time, _the whole time_ , and it was almost more than she could take.

And the boy just said "no" again, and then he was turning back toward the outlaw captain, his face contorted with every roiling, anguished emotion that Jane herself was feeling, but intensified a hundredfold. "No. _NO!_ You said if I… If I just… You promised. _YOU PROMISED!_ "

"Yes," the man in black said calmly, "I did. I promised to reunite you with her, and I am a man of my word. Hugh?"

Jane saw what was happening and lunged against her restraints harder than she ever had yet, screaming " _NOOO!_ " so loudly and frantically that her vision literally darkened around the edges, her heartbeat suddenly pounding, desperate, right behind her temples.

It availed her nothing – _accomplished_ nothing – other than to wrench her shoulders nearly out of their sockets; another sharp new pain to add to the seemingly endless catalog of abuses her body had suffered during this long and hellish day.

It didn't stop the breathtakingly horrific scene that was playing out in front of her as Hugh stepped up, grabbed and spun the boy so that they were face-to-face, and then plunged a dagger hilt-deep into his chest.

He yanked the blade free and took a step back, casually wiping the blood off on his own sleeve before stowing the weapon back at his hip.

The boy's legs buckled, spilling him to his knees. He listed to the side and threw out a hand to catch himself; turned his head and raised his eyes to Jane's.

"I am sorry," he whispered, "so sorry that I –" and then the light went out of his eyes, and he crumpled the rest of the way to the tent's earthen floor, and died.

She was aware, very, very distantly, of Gunther saying her name over and over again. Telling her to _breathe_ again. Mounting panic in his tone.

But she _was_ breathing, wasn't she?

Wasn't she?

Actually, maybe not.

She thought; _Pepper_.

She thought; _Rake_.

 _They_ were parents. Parents of a boy and a girl. Like this boy and girl. Eleanor and her brother whose name Jane had never even learned.

 _Pepper_.

 _Rake_.

Two of her oldest, dearest friends. Good people. Good honest, simple, hardworking people. Ada and Alain were their _world_. What if someone had done this to _their_ children? To _their_ family?

It would destroy them. It would rip them to shreds. It would gut them and savage them and leave them empty and broken on the ground. And they would never be able to pick themselves up again, not really, not fully, no. Not ever. They would… they would…

" _Jane, breathe! BREATHE!_ "

She thought; _Pepper_.

She thought; _Rake_.

She thought; _blue eyes. They had the most beautiful blue eyes, and I never even asked his name_.

And the fog in her mind cleared. She had accessed some new, deep, fundamental reservoir of rage – a rage like she had never felt before. It was vast, it was primal, and it burned as hot and bright as dragonfire, it burned like the _sun_ , and the haze that had clouded her thinking was melting away before it like mist at the break of day.

She made the connection she'd been searching for so fruitlessly before the hapless boy had made his ill-fated appearance.

 _Control Dragon. He wants to control Dragon._

She knew what she had to do.

It was the same thing she'd had to do when the outlaws had mistaken her for Princess Lavinia back by the riverbank.

She had to _act_.

Marten and Hugh were momentarily occupied, overseeing the boy's removal by the two guards who had accompanied him into the tent.

Jane dragged in a hitching, grating breath and squeezed Gunther's hand as hard as she could. _Both_ their hands, she thought detachedly, had to be white and bloodless by now, they were holding onto each other with such desperate fierceness. She angled her head, just barely, toward his, and when he stilled and quieted, sagging with relief that she had remembered to breathe again, she knew she had his attention. Hardly daring to move her lips, she exhaled two little words.

" _Play... along_."


	32. Chapter 32

She bowed her head for a moment, gathering herself, _bracing_ herself, because there was more hurt coming, she was certain of it. She had to make this look convincing, and one of the ways of doing that was to appear… reluctant… in the "knowledge" that she was imparting. Marten Broadcloak wasn't stupid, far from it. She couldn't make it seem too easy, or he'd sense that something was wrong. He'd have to feel like he was literally wrenching the information out of her, or he'd never believe it was legitimate.

 _I can do this. It is this or die. It is this or_ Gunther _dies. So I can do this. I_ have _to_.

She didn't look up again until Marten had returned and hunkered down directly in front of her. Then she very slowly raised her eyes, which were absolutely _blazing_ with hatred, to meet his.

For a fraction of a second something flickered deep down behind his _own_ eyes in response – some brief spark of surprise or even uneasiness at the raw force of the emotion in Jane's green gaze. But it was gone almost instantaneously, and he settled back into an easy, cross-legged sitting position, affecting a supremely unconcerned manner.

"I know, I know," he said blandly, "I am a monster, and doubtless much more, as well. I think, my lady, that cloistered up in the castle as you usually are, you have limited experience with these country peasants. Allow me, then, to educate you. They breed like wild rabbits, and I am sure the boy's parents have eight more strapping lads just like him at home, and half a dozen more pretty little milkmaids. They may grieve this pair for a while, but secretly, there will probably be a touch of relief at two fewer mouths to feed. Now – back to more important matters. What have you to tell me about the dragon?"

Jane swallowed hard. She opened her mouth, on the edge of speech, then snapped it shut again, angling her gaze down and away. She pulled in a couple of deep, hitching breaths, fighting for composure. Wincing, because just breathing down to the bottom of her lungs still _hurt_ , thanks to that bastard Hugh.

That raping, murdering bastard Hugh.

She could almost still feel his hands around her throat. She registered, distantly, that she was shaking – all of her, her whole body. Shaking so hard that her teeth were getting ready to rattle. _Why?_ Of all the things that were wrong with her at the moment, cold wasn't one of them. Her hair _was_ still a bit damp, but...

 _I must be going into shock_. The thought was detached, queerly analytical. She supposed it made sense, given everything she'd gone through.

Was _going_ through.

Because it wasn't over yet. No, not by a long shot.

Marten grabbed her chin, bruisingly hard, and yanked her face back toward him. "I asked you a question, my _lady_ ," he said, his voice low but dangerous, fraught with malice and the promise of more pain if she did not give him exactly what he wanted, and post haste.

She wrenched free, shot a frantic, lightning-quick glance toward the Dragon Sword, still propped in the corner of the tent, then reluctantly dragged her eyes back to her captor's. She hoped - she _really_ hoped - that he had noticed.

"What –" she swallowed again. _Gulped_ , actually. It was time to pour it on thick. "What are… what will you… what will you _do_ with him? What will you use him for?"

"Jane, _no_ ," Gunther said – almost groaned. He was turning it on now too. That was good… but it was also terrifying.

 _Please God, do not let them hurt him for this. Let them stay focused on me. Please, oh please_ …

Marten's eyes flicked to Gunther – but it was an expression of sudden, keen interest, rather than annoyance, and he returned them almost immediately to Jane. Inwardly, she sagged with relief. Outwardly, she bit her lip and let her eyes fall away from his again.

 _Breaking. I am breaking. That is what it has to look like. I am trying to stay defiant but I have been through too much, I am too frightened for Gunther, and I am slowly but surely breaking_.

"What will I _use_ it for?" he echoed, mockingly. "Nothing you would approve of, my lady, I am sure. That is not your concern. _Your_ concern is – or _should_ be, at any rate – getting yourself and your husband out of this tent alive. Now _how_ – do I control – the _dragon!?_ "

He grabbed her shoulder, the one that had been sliced right down to her collarbone during the fighting, in a vice-like grip. A ragged cry was wrenched from her that was almost entirely authentic – she barely needed to act in that moment because the pain, as he dug in his fingers, was all too real.

"Answer me," he growled, as Gunther swore and threw himself against his bonds, "or I promise you will spend the rest of your life wishing you had."

"S-stuh… _stop!_ " she gasped. "Please, I – just stop."

He released her and she let her head fall against the wooden post at her back, her breath hitching, becoming more and more shallow and erratic, until she was actually crying and the worst part, the _scariest_ part, was that the tears were _not_ an act – not at all. She'd been able to stave them off a few moments ago, but no longer. She was being overwhelmed.

She was walking a very thin line, on the edge of losing control entirely.

But she had to remember her purpose and use every bit of pain to her advantage. She _had_ to.

"Will… you… promise me something?" she managed once she recovered the ability to speak, hot tears still stinging their way down her cheeks. "If I… if I…" she shot another quick, agonized look toward the Dragon Sword. This time she was positive he caught it.

" _Jane!_ " Gunther's voice was tense, his tone warning. Once again Marten glanced at him before fastening his eyes back on Jane. Those shrewd, dark eyes held a hint of triumph now, Jane thought, as though he sensed that he was close to getting what he wanted. His voice was neutral, however, as he asked, "and what would that be?"

"Gunther," she gasped. "You cannot hurt him! Not you, not Hugh, not any of your people – no man, woman or child who answers to you can hurt him. You have to swear. _Swear!_ "

"Jane, do not _DO_ this!" Gunther sounded agonized. Hugh took a threatening step toward him, but Marten waved him back impatiently. Just as Jane had hoped, he was focused almost entirely on her at the moment and Gunther's interruptions were actually _welcome_ in a way, because they gave credence to the fact that Jane was about to give him exactly what he wanted.

 _Dragon_.

"I make you this promise, and you will tell me how to control the dragon? Even how to ride it?"

Her eyes fell closed. She shuddered, tears leaking out from under her lashes, giving a very convincing impression of being at absolute war with herself. Finally she whispered a single, hoarse word.

"Yes."

" _Done_." The satisfaction in Marten's voice was unmistakable, as was the eagerness. "Now tell me. What do I do?"

Her head still tipped back against the support post, she opened her eyes again; tear-bright, sparkling, green almost beyond belief. For a moment she simply stared at the tent's ceiling. Then she rolled her head to the side, shifting her gaze now, steadily, to her sword.

Marten's gaze followed.

"Jane, no, _NO!_ " Gunther was all but screaming now. "Do not, Jane, damn it, _DO NOT_ –"

"The sword," she said, both looking and sounding absolutely wretched in that moment, as if she were being ripped in two, the words seeming to be torn from her by force. "The sword is the key."


	33. Chapter 33

Gunther made a despairing sound.

Marten, on the other hand, shot to his feet, eyes positively blazing with triumph, and crossed the tent to retrieve the Dragon Sword. He retuned cradling it in his arms and hunkered down in front of Jane again, inspecting the sword closely.

"This is an unusual weapon, I grant you," he said. "I have never seen anything like it before. It is intriguing. But what am I meant to _do_ with it? How can I control a dragon with a sword?"

"You… you can use… he…" Jane broke off and swallowed hard.

"Stop now," Gunther grated out. "Jane, for God's sake, _stop_ –"

"Whoever holds the sword can bend the dragon's will to his own," Jane said in a rush, as if it were actually _paining_ her to impart this knowledge, and she'd decided that the best way – perhaps the _only_ way – she could get through it was by blurting it all out as quickly as possible.

Gunther groaned.

"The sword is… you can use it to summon the beast," Jane continued, "and once he answers the call, he… he is yours to command. But it… it is a complicated process. It would be better if I could… could demonstrate."

Marten gave a short bark of laughter. "Nice try, Lady Jane! I think not. Just tell me what to do."

She pulled in a shaky breath and glanced around the tent. "You… you are going to need more space than this. You will have to go outside, not too close to the trees. And then –"

And then she told him exactly what to do.

He stared at her, skeptically, for a long moment after.

"It will not go well for you, my lady, if this fails to work."

"Do just as I said, and it will not fail." Her voice was dull now. Defeated.

He watched her a moment longer, considering. She let her head fall forward, the very picture of despair.

"I will be back," he said, and motioning Hugh to follow him, left the tent.

* * *

"My God," Gunther said hoarsely once they were alone. "Jane, I… oh, my G– that was _brilliant_. That… you are _amazing_. Do you have any bloody idea how amazing you are!?"

She lifted her head and tried a smile. It was not particularly successful.

"Thank you," she managed. "You did pretty well yourself. I just hope it works."

"Of course it will work. As long as he does it correctly, and you were very clear in your instructions. Dragon will hear it, right? You do not think he could be out of range, do you?"

"No. It has a large range and Dragon… Dragon will be searching anyway by now, I think. I just... I hope... he is in time."

Gunther went very still. "In time," he echoed. "Jane, what do you mean?"

"Just that I do not trust him, not for a _second_ , not… his word is worth nothing, _less_ than nothing, you saw what he did to –"

She had to break off as a sob took her. All of that deep, deep primal rage that had welled up in her when she had watched the boy die was gone now, evaporated away, and the clarity of vision and thought that it had brought with it was quickly dissipating as well. She was still shaking, and her thoughts were becoming clouded over again, and then she was, quite suddenly, crying harder than she'd ever cried in her life.

"Jane. _Jane!_ " Gunther sounded stricken. He was struggling again, frantic to get free so he could offer her some comfort.

"Suh-sorry!" she gasped.

"I have to get you out of here," he said grimly.

"We have to get _each other_ out of here," she managed, "but I do not… know how, I can… can… not _think_ anymore, I… he _killed_ him, Gunther, he kuh-killed him and… and… if he comes back… before Dragon can… and hurts _you_ , I… I…"

"Jane. Jane, _listen_ to me. _Jane_." Squeezing her hand again, hard, so hard. Driving some of the fog away. Anchoring her to reality. Anchoring her to _him_.

She took several hitching, shuddering breaths, fighting her way back to some semblance of control. "It is going to be all right," he said. "I do not know how, but it is. You were the one who told _me_ that we would get through this somehow, remember? Now I am telling it back to you. We have made it this far, we are going to make it out. No one is taking me away from you, all right? Nor you from me. I will not let that happen. I promise. I _promise_."

"I love you!" she blurted between rapid, shallow, panting breaths. "I _love_ you, Gunther."

"Not," he said quietly, "as much as I love you."

Her only response was a helpless, snorting little laugh-sob. She let her head fall against his shoulder. Despite everything that was wrong, just… howlingly, cataclysmically wrong, at least there was this; at least they were close to each other. _Touching_ each other. If they'd been restrained on opposite sides of the tent or worse still, in _separate_ tents, she wouldn't have been able to stand it. She would already, she thought, quite likely be broken beyond repair.

But he was right here, pressed against her, hand entwined with hers, solid and warm and bruised-up but essentially okay… and the simple fact of his presence was already helping to calm her back down, already helping her to fight through the intense surge of panic and despair that had nearly overtaken her.

She could find her footing again. She _could;_ she had to. If she were given just a little more time.

As it happened, though – she was not.

* * *

It was right at that moment that Marten reentered the tent, Hugh just behind him.

"What happens next?" he demanded, crossing immediately to Jane and dropping into a squat in front of her. "How long before the dragon arrives?"

She snapped her head back up, mentally scrambling for an acceptable answer. There was now a manic light in the outlaw captain's eyes that she found deeply unnerving. His core instability was showing through – she sensed that she _must not_ provoke him in this moment.

"How… how long depends on where he is," she said, "but he flies fast, especially when… summoned… you should not have long to wait. When he gets here… uhm…" honestly, she hadn't thought that far. She'd been entirely focused on just getting the signal out, and was now spontaneously inventing, hoping desperately that she sounded at least somewhat credible. "When he gets here, you should be back outside. Preferably somewhere that he can land – remember, he will need some space. You should –" she was thinking furiously now – "you should have the sword with you, let him see it, remember it is the key to the dragon's obedience. It is how he will recognize that you are his new master." She was fairly certain – or at least, she fervently hoped – that she was guaranteeing Marten a quick, yet _brutal_ , fiery death. "But," she added as a final caveat, "the sword _must_ be kept sheathed." It terrified her to know that her enemy, this madman, this cruel and faithless _monster_ , was holding the one blade in all the world that was actually capable of harming her friend. She couldn't let herself dwell on it – the very thought made her ill. _He_ didn't know, though, thank God – and she didn't think it likely that Dragon would give him time to figure it out. She would rather not have run the risk at all, but there was no other way. She and Gunther would not survive without Dragon's intervention. She was as sure of that as she'd ever been of anything. They needed him and oh God, they needed him _soon_.

"The sight of the blade will arouse his bloodlust," she improvised; "it will make him more difficult to control. It will not be a problem once you have… had time to assert your dominance. But for your first encounter, it would be… wise… to keep it in its sheath."

He stared at her hard for a moment, assessing, but he must have been satisfied with what he saw because he got back to his feet, and turned to Hugh.

"Stay here and guard them," he said, already moving back to the tent flap. "And you are not to harm a hair on his head – you heard me give the lady my word, did you not?"

Jane barely had time to sag with relief, though, before he continued, "as for _her_ , though – do as you like."

Suddenly it seemed there was not enough air left in the world, as Gunther went tense as a drawn bow and Marten turned to give her a last, mocking smile. "My apologies," he said; "I fear this will not be enjoyable for you. But a good leader must see that his men's needs are met. It is nothing personal, my lady."

He ducked out of the tent as Hugh turned back toward her, grinning hideously.


	34. Chapter 34

"No," she whispered.

"Oh yes," Hugh said, eyes alight with malice.

She pulled both her knees up to her chin, aware even as she did so that it was a completely futile gesture; it wasn't going to stop him. She couldn't stop him, Gunther couldn't stop him, this was happening, this was… this was…

… _No no no no NO_ …

She pressed herself as hard as she could against the post and against her husband; she could feel the rage and hate rolling off of him in waves, so strong they were nearly a physical manifestation – but that wouldn't protect her. Nothing could. Not until Dragon arrived, and… and… and a lot of damage could be done by then.

 _Worlds_ of damage could be done by then.

She twisted her head and buried her face in his shoulder as best she could, and choked out, "do not let go. Gunther, please? Hold onto me?"

He gave a strangled groan and his hand tightened around hers.

"Well isn't this sweet?" Hugh murmured, right beside her now. He had noticed their linked hands at last. He plunged his own hand into Jane's tangled, still-damp mass of hair, then tightened it into a fist, making her cry out. He wrenched her head around, forcing her to face him again, but his words were directed at Gunther. "Going to hold your little wifey's hand while another man has his way with her? How… pathetically useless," he sneered, and then several things happened, very quickly.

Jane pistoned both of her legs out together, catching Hugh hard in the thigh. That was not the part of his anatomy she'd been hoping to connect with, but bound as she was, and in such close quarters, it was the best she could do. It wasn't anything she'd planned or even thought about on a conscious level – it was a sudden, reflexive response to hearing this… this piece of _scum_ taunting her husband that way. She struck out more, in that moment, for Gunther's sake than for her own.

It was a solid blow, regardless of the fact that she'd missed her… _preferred target_ … and although it caused fresh pain to explode through her injured ankle, it at least accomplished this much; Hugh fell over backward with a howl. Jane immediately threw all her weight against her bonds, knowing it wouldn't do any good, but absolutely frantic now – and then something unbelievable happened.

She managed to pull her hands very nearly free.

The ropes at her wrists had been badly weakened when she'd sawed at them with the blade of her sword. They hadn't let go – then – but they'd been compromised, more seriously than she'd understood at the time. They'd been weakened further when she'd lunged against her restraints at the moment that Hugh had murdered the boy – Eleanor's brother. And there was another element at work as well; the fact that she'd sliced _herself_ on the Dragon Sword while trying to cut her bindings. The blood had coated her hands and wrists, acting as a macabre – but quite effective – sort of lubricant.

One more good wrench, and she could probably win free – and as it happened, Hugh was more than willing to oblige.

Snarling, furious, he pushed himself up onto his knees, closed the distance between them before Jane could regroup to strike again, and backhanded her across the face with savage force. The blow knocked her sideways, and she lost Gunther's hand, and he was shouting again, hoarsely, desperately, although she could barely hear him over the sudden ringing in her ears.

None of that was very important, though. What was important – what truly mattered – was that in that instant, the ropes around her wrists, which also bound her to the support post, were snapped tight again – and this time they gave.

Not totally, no, but enough. Enough for her hands to slip out.

She kept them behind her, though. Her head was spinning, but even through this new haze of pain and disorientation, she understood that she shouldn't give herself away quite yet. This was an opportunity she could not afford to waste.

She would _never_ get another chance like this.

Hugh seized her by the waist and yanked her toward him. Jane had the presence of mind to grab on to the ropes she'd just slipped free of, so that her hands stayed convincingly close together, at the small of her back.

"I am going to enjoy making you scream, sword-wench," he spat, driving a knee between her legs, and still she waited. She waited even when he grabbed the laces of her jerkin, which had already been loosened by Marten, and ripped, exposing far, _far_ to much of her to his greedy, piggish eyes. She waited, struggling to control her breathing, trying to will herself calm, as he ran his hands down her body – pinching and pawing as he went – to start yanking at her breeches. And she waited as he lowered his head and bit her, hard, at the juncture of her shoulder and her throat. It was, ironically, nearly the same place where Gunther had kissed her when they'd reunited in the midst of the fighting.

She _did_ scream then. It hurt, oh _God_ it hurt. Reality tried to go spinning away from her again, but she wouldn't let it. _Couldn't_ let it. She still held, grimly, to her purpose. He was wholly occupied now, all of his senses engaged in his abuse of her – and so finally, _finally_ , she acted. She dragged her hands out from beneath her, counting on the fact that he was now too… _involved_ … to notice; shot one of them down, lightning-quick, to yank his dagger from the sheath at his hip, and then, before he had time to do anything more than widen his eyes in surprise, she drove the blade into his neck as hard as she could.


	35. Chapter 35

(A/N: the longest chapter yet! I just couldn't find a good place to break it without _really_ disrupting the flow. Hope you enjoy - please review!)

* * *

She held onto the dagger as her attacker fell away from her gurgling and gagging and clutching at his throat, so the weapon yanked free of him and remained in her hand. She rolled onto her side and in that moment, her overwhelming urge was to curl up in the tightest ball she could manage, clutching the bloody dagger the way a toddler might clutch a security blanket, and just let everything fall away. Let the darkness come.

But she fought through it. She couldn't rest. Not here, not now, God no. No, there was something she had to do. She had to… she had to…

 _Gunther_.

He was shouting her name. He sounded frantic nearly to the point of madness.

She tried to push herself up onto her hands and knees. Failed. Tried again. Failed again. Groaning, she gathered herself for one more last-ditch effort. Managing some modicum of success this time, she crawled to her husband, cut his ropes, and freed him.

Instantly he was holding her. His arms shot up and yanked her to his chest and then he was crushing her to him, so tightly that she could barely _breathe_ , dropping his face into her hair and starting to rock her slightly, his whole body shaking, and she let herself just collapse into him, inhaling his scent, allowing her eyes to fall shut and trying to burrow even deeper into his embrace, impossible as that was.

He was already holding her as hard as one person can hold another.

And whispering her name over and over and over again, _Jane_ and _Jane_ and _Jane, oh God, Jane_.

They stayed that way for what felt like a very long time. Jane never wanted to let go again, and it was pretty clear that Gunther felt the same way. But eventually reality began to reassert itself. And the reality was that they were still in a breathtaking amount of danger.

It was Gunther who stirred first, sitting up straighter and loosening his grip on Jane.

" _No_ ," she protested, fisting her hands in the rough leather of his clothing, not wanting to let go, not wanting this moment to end.

"Jane, we have to." His voice was quiet, but implacable. "We cannot stay here. You know that."

She pulled back a few inches, but she couldn't bring herself to break contact yet. With a pronounced effort, she made herself release his jerkin, but only to raise her hands to his face, holding it, framing it, smudging it with blood too, but that hardly mattered – and allowed her forehead to drop against his with a little clunk.

"I do not th...hink I can... let go of you," she said brokenly.

"We just need to get through this," he replied hoarsely, "and then you will never have to again."

She swallowed hard and nodded, foreheads still pressed together, and then shifted back a few more inches, until she was arms-length away from him, though still more or less in his lap. His eyes were dark with anger, but his fingers were incredibly careful and gentle as he pulled the laces of her jerkin tight again, tying them off, covering her. Then he shifted her carefully off of him and stood, picking up the dagger Jane had dropped when he'd pulled her into his arms. Crossing the short distance to where Hugh lay, he hunkered down beside the dying man.

"I was wrong about the screaming," he observed, as Hugh's eyes bulged and rolled with terror and pain, his mouth too full of blood to make any sound other than a wet sort of burbling. Then, with a swift thrust to the heart, he finished what Jane had begun.

Jane, meanwhile, had used the support post as leverage to pull herself to her feet. She took a single step toward where her husband was now straightening up as well – and it felt as though someone had seized hold of the ground beneath her feet and given it an almighty yank. There was another brief yet intense flash of pain in her injured leg, and then she was down on her hands and knees again, head hanging almost to the ground as the tent spun sickeningly around her.

" _JANE!_ " Gunther was back on his knees and beside her in a second, raw panic in his voice. She managed to raise shocked, confused green eyes to his. She didn't even remember falling – just taking a step, and then being on the ground.

"Jane, what… what…" he couldn't seem to string any more words together. And God, he looked so scared. It hurt her heart. She tried to put on a brave face.

"My… my ankle. I forgot," she managed. She was going to leave it at that, but Gunther's expression indicated that he knew something else was going on. "And… dizzy," she added reluctantly. "I just feel so…"

She raised a shaking hand and pressed it to her temple, her temple which had now taken _three_ hard blows; one in the fighting and two courtesy of Hugh. She hissed in a sharp, hurt little breath, unable to really comprehend what was happening to her. Her sense of dizziness was escalating, and her ability for rational thought seemed to be diminishing in direct relation to it.

"G-Gunther…?" All of her confusion was evident in her voice as she shifted herself, very carefully, back into a sitting position. She could not make sense of what was happening to her. Hugh was dead, but the danger wasn't past. Not at _all_. There was more she needed to do. She had to be okay. She _had_ to be okay. There was too much at stake for her _not_ to be.

"Here," he said, his voice quiet and somehow… _tight_. "Let me see." He cupped her chin in one hand, actually looking at her carefully for the first time since she'd freed him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the bruises already blooming on her throat, where she'd been choked, and along the side of her face where she'd been struck.

She watched him track the discoloration up her jawline… and then abruptly he went very, very still. His eyes widened, and he raised a hand to brush the hair away from her temple. Jane stared, uncomprehending, as his fingers came away wet and red.

That made no sense. _Her_ hands were bloody, not his.

Well, no, that wasn't exactly true. His hands did have blood on them, from the wound to his arm that he'd taken in the fighting. But this was decidedly fresher.

And then of course, there was the expression on his face. Really, that was all she needed to tell her that this blood was different, this blood was _hers_.

"Jane," he said, suddenly sounding as if Hugh had just kicked him in the stomach all over again, as if he couldn't quite catch his breath, "does your head hurt?"

"Nuh… n-no," she said. Right at that moment, it didn't. It felt strange and sort of floaty, but it didn't exactly hurt, per se.

"Do you feel sleepy?"

"Do I… Gunther, what –"

" _Jane,_ do _you!?_ "

She paused for a moment, thinking about it, trying to assess. She was completely and totally physically and emotionally exhausted, but she didn't think that was what he was asking. That wasn't quite the same as… _sleepy_. "I do not th… _think_ so."

He started at her hard, searching, his slate-colored eyes boring into hers.

"But you do feel dizzy," he said at length. It was not a question.

"I… a… a little."

"Goddam it," he swore softly, shooting a look of such seething, roiling hatred at Hugh's body that Jane actually shrank back a little. It was _frightening_ , that look.

It passed, though. And he looked back at her, and opened his mouth to speak – and then, to her horror, his face just… _crumpled_ , he was suddenly pulling for air as if he were suffocating, drowning; and then he was dropping his head onto his knees and fisting his bloodied hands in his hair and just... well, going to pieces.

"Gunther! Gunther, what..." her voice dropped to a whisper. "You are scaring me."

"Sorry," he gasped, and he sounded so... _lost_ , and then he was reaching out, pulling her back into his arms with desperate fierceness, clinging to her as a series of hard shudders wracked his body. They were pressed so tightly together that she could actually feel his heart beating – it was pounding, racing.

"I cannot lose you," he said, his voice muffled, speaking into her bruised, aching neck. "I _cannot_ , Jane, I… it would kill me. I know you said I could, that I _would_ , if I _had_ to and I thought… I thought… there would be no reason anymore, no purpose but I… could go on putting one… foot… in front of the other, at least long enough to… to… but I was _wrong!_ I _cannot DO it_ , I – I – am not strong enough. Not on my own. Not without _you_. I am not, Jane, I am _not_."

He was nearly panting. He was completely beside himself. "Gunther," she managed, "You are not losing me. I am here, I am _right here_."

He shuddered again and tightened his arms around her still further, convulsively, _frantically_. "You are not… going to _lose_ me," she repeated desperately. "Not… not today. Gunther, you have me. I am right here. We are going to get through this together. We _are_."

Slowly, he raised his head. Her heart gave a painful lurch inside her chest when their eyes met. She had never in her _life_ seen him look this terrified, this vulnerable. He looked… he looked _destroyed_.

"Gunther!" It was a scream inside her mind, but only a bare whisper passed her lips. She was so sucker-punched by the expression in his eyes that she could barely even _breathe_ , let alone speak.

He swallowed hard, slammed his eyes shut and dropped his face to her shoulder – but just for a few seconds, this time. When he raised his head again, he had regained at least partial mastery of himself.

"I love you," he said hoarsely, raising one hand to frame the side of her face. The less bruised and bloody side.

"I love you too," she breathed, still completely overwhelmed by… whatever it was that was happening with him right now.

"Jane." He took a shaky breath. "I… your head, it… I am very – _concerned_ – that there might be –" he broke off, looked away for a moment. His jawline hardened, the corners of his mouth wrenching downward as he fought for control. He took a couple of deep, if unsteady, breaths before facing her again.

"If you start to feel sleepy," he said, "you have to tell me. You _have_ to. _Immediately_. All right?"

That was when she finally understood. "I have a concussion…?"

"Not sure. But I think… your eyes, there… is something about your eyes, something… different. Jane, I just… promise. To tell me. Please?" His voice broke jaggedly on that last word.

"Yes," she said numbly. She'd have promised him _anything_ in that moment, anything to make him stop _looking_ like that, so lost, so _haunted_ , she'd have promised to deliver the kingdom into his hands, the moon, the stars, anything at all.

"Good," he said hoarsely. "Good, all right, I…" he glanced around the tent as if not quite sure where he _was_ , as if he were coming out of some sort of trance. "We need to figure out what to do, we need… _weapons_ , and…"

And then both of them went very, very still, listening hard, eyes first narrowing in concentration, then meeting and widening as the sound – distant but approaching fast – resolved into something familiar and unmistakable.

 _Wingbeats_.


	36. Chapter 36

Wingbeats.

Had there ever been a more beautiful sound?

Wingbeats.

 _Salvation_.

The cavalry was here. But they couldn't just leave it all up to Dragon. Especially not when Marten was out there still holding the only known weapon that could actually hurt him. Could _kill_ him, in point of fact. The chances of that were slim to none, of course – but Jane was not willing to risk _any_ odds. Not when it came to _that_. None.

"We have to get out there," she said, her hands clenching on Gunther's shoulders. "We have to – Gunther – _now!_ "

Gunther didn't say a word, just unfolded himself to his feet, swinging her up into his arms as he did so – but she immediately stiffened against him.

" _No!_ Put me down! You need to be able to hold a sword, you have to be able to _fight!_ "

"Jane –"

" _NO!_ I will not burden you this way! You _have_ – to be able – to _fight!_ I can walk, I _can_ , Gunther, put me down!"

"No," he said simply, almost absently, eyes scanning the tent as he moved toward the flap.

"What are you looking for, a sword?" She demanded. "How would you pick one up if you _found_ one? How would you take one even if someone walked in here and _handed_ it to you!? Let alone _use_ it? Damn it, Gunther, you have to put –" but at that moment she was drowned out by a sudden volley of shouts from outside the tent.

They heard Dragon land, heard Marten saying something to him in a raised voice, but Jane couldn't make out the words over all the commotion that had now erupted in the little camp.

Dragon's response, however, carried perfectly clearly, and Jane didn't think she'd _ever_ heard him sound this dangerous.

"Where is Jane?" he demanded, and then, a second later, before Marten even had a chance to reply, " _WHERE – IS –_ _ **JANE!?**_ "

This was followed immediately by more shouting, and Jane and Gunther's eyes met again, wide and amazed, as they realized that they recognized at least one more voice out there – "he brought Sir Theodore," Jane said, her voice flat with shock.

Before Gunther could respond, there came the unmistakable whoosh of Dragon loosing a flame. One side of the tent illuminated bright, hot orange. Some of the shouts turned instantly into shrieks of mortal agony.

A roar. Another whoosh of flame. And then awful rending, tearing sounds. "Sweet merciful God," said Gunther, who seemed suddenly paralyzed, rooted to the spot. "Is he ripping up _trees?_ "

His question was answered instantly, dramatically, and very much in the affirmative, when the shadow of something enormous went hurtling past one side of the tent, visible through the course fabric of the wall, and impacted the ground with a crash that shook the very earth.

Gunther swore explosively.

The expression on his face said that he was thinking the same thing she was; Dragon didn't know their whereabouts, which meant that they were in as much danger as anyone else so long as he was throwing trees around.

"We have to get out there, Gunther, now, _right_ now, right the hell _NOW!_ "

"Right," he said, and moved toward the tent flap again. The sound of clashing steel had not joined the cacophony of noises coming from outside. "Wait," Jane said urgently as they reached it, gesturing down to a sloppy pile of equipment right beside the entrance. Clothing, helms, bits of dinged-up and mismatched armor, and there – _there_ – the hilts of a least three different swords protruded from the general mess.

"Gunther, there is fighting out there, I can hear it, I _know_ you can too. You _need_ one – and so do I."

The look he gave her then was agonized. "But your leg – Jane, if you… do some kind of permanent damage –"

She actually pressed two fingers to his lips, shushing him. "We can worry about permanent damage," she said calmly, "if we make it through the next ten minutes _alive_. All right? And our chances of that will be much better with swords in our hands. You need to put me down."

He groaned, then gritted out in a tortured voice, "I do not think I can let go of you."

Jane responded with a choked little sound that was half laugh, half sob. "We just need to get through this, and then you will never have to again."

He set her gently down in order to rummage through the pile of equipment; she immediately shifted her weight to her uninjured foot. It was not going to be fun, trying to walk – she could tell that much right away, and with absolute certainty. And the sense of vertigo, of the world spinning slowly but surely around her, which had lessened while Gunther'd been holding her, instantly worsened as well. She bit her lip and clenched her fists and did her best to fight it back. There was no way in hell she was going to let on to Gunther – he _had_ to have his hands free to wield a sword. It could be the difference between life and death.

"Here," he said, turning and handing her a blade, broader and heavier than she was used to, nicked and rust-pocked, too. "That is the best of them, they are all rubbish, really, and –" he broke off, running a hand through his hair; a distracted, anxious gesture. "I do not suppose there is any way I can convince you to wait here?" His eyes were beseeching.

"What, and get turned into jelly by the next tree he throws? I have to get out where he can see me, Gunther. I have to calm him down!"

"You honestly think seeing you like this is going to _calm him down!?_ " he demanded. "Jane, one look at you and he is going to –"

But he was cut off by a furious roar, followed quickly by another tree trunk hurtling past just feet away. They both flinched, and he shot out an arm as if to protect her – for all the good that could possibly have done, had Dragon's aim been just the smallest bit off.

When their eyes met again, his were resigned. "Your head?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," she said, and it wasn't _so_ much of a lie, not really. It still didn't _hurt_ , not exactly – just felt a bit odd, was all; rather as if it were stuffed with cotton.

"Stay near me," he said. "Will you do that, at least? Not for your sake – for mine. If I lose sight of you again… I – I –"

"Gunther." She closed the distance between them with a single step; reached up and around with her free hand, to tangle her fingers in the dark hair at the base of his neck. "We are going to be all right. We _are_." She pulled his head down and sealed her lips to his – a quick kiss, but almost ferocious in its intensity.

"For luck," she said when they broke apart, and then they ducked out of the tent flap together.


	37. Chapter 37

(A/N: I'm having election day anxiety! Ack! Hopefully posting a new chapter will distract me, for a little while at least. Give me something to think about besides election results by reviewing - pretty please?)

* * *

It was immediately apparent that several more outlaws had straggled back to the camp since Jane and Gunther's arrival. Dragon, however, had brought reinforcements of his own – in addition to himself, that was. His presence _alone_ would doubtless have been enough to turn the tide, but still Jane's heart was gladdened by the sight of Sir Theodore nearby, and Smithy, and two others from their company; a pair of brothers, tall young men from the castle town.

 _He let them ride him_ , she realized; _all of them, he must have, for me_.

She actually felt tears jump to her eyes at the thought. Dragon was… _prickly_ … about "shortlives" mistaking him for some kind of dumb beast of burden. He did not give out rides like a common pony. The fact that he let _Jane_ ride him was born out of mutual respect, affection and trust. When the two of them patrolled together, they were a partnership. _This_ – the fact that he'd brought four men here with him – was unprecedented.

There was no time to dwell on it at present, though. There was too much going on.

A loud ring of steel on steel came from close beside her; Gunther had already engaged with one of the bandits. Sir Theodore and the others who had arrived with Dragon were all fighting outlaws too, though Sir Theodore saw her anyway – their eyes met across the short distance that separated them. He raked her from head to foot, taking her in, relief battling fury in his expression. But that was all the interaction they had time for just then. The older knight was heavily occupied at the moment and Jane was still intent on reaching Dragon.

 _Dragon_.

At that very instant he threw back his head and bellowed her name to the sky, a great roar of anger and fear and anticipatory grief. " ** _JANE!_** "

"Here!" she shouted. "Dragon! I am here!"

He whipped toward her, his eyes wild. And then the only thing that mattered anymore was reaching him.

Well, almost the only thing. She did shoot a quick look in Gunther's direction to make sure he was all right, first. He was doing fine. He'd already dispatched his first opponent and moved on to a new one; he was fighting with a rage-fueled ferocity she'd never seen before. He was not in need of whatever limited assistance she'd be able to offer in her current state.

Limping, hurting, not _caring_ , she ran to reunite with her best friend.

Her legs failed her just as she reached him and she literally fell into him; colliding with the solid green warmth of him, throwing her arms as wide as she could, wanting to _connect_ with as much of him as she could, burying her face in his shoulder and sliding to her knees, the sword Gunther had handed her dropping forgotten to the ground. Dragon brought his great head around, as close to her as he could; she could feel the heavy, panicked bursts of his breath stirring her hair.

It was only in that moment that she truly understood: she hadn't expected to see him again. Not really. Not _ever_.

"Sorry!" she gasped out. "Dragon, I… am so sorry! The sword… he… did he _hurt_ you!? Are you –"

She lifted her head – (it felt very heavy, and increasingly strange as well, increasingly… _floaty_ , as if it were barely tethered to her body at all) – and turned to face him. The wildness had almost left his eyes – almost, but not quite.

"I thought I had lost you," he said roughly. I really… I thought… when I got here and saw that shortlife holding your sword –"

"The _sword!_ Dragon, where –"

"Right here," he said, lifting his nearest foot to reveal the sword pinned underneath, still safely in its scabbard.

Relief swamped her; a rush of emotion so strong that she had to let her head drop back against him. "He never… unsheathed it, he did not… you are really –"

"I am fine, Jane. Not so much as a scratch. But you –"

"And Marten," she interrupted, "the man, the… the one who was holding it. Did –"

"Burnt to a crisp," Dragon said. " _Jane_. I want to know who _did_ this to _you_."

She blinked. It was almost a perfect echo of what Gunther had asked her when they'd found each other during the fighting. And even the answer was the same.

"Dead. Both of them, I… there were two of them who… my hands were tied, but I got them free and Gunther and I, we… we handled the one, and… it sounds like you handled the other."

Dragon growled, deep in his throat. "Now that I know _that_ , I wish I could bring him back and roast him again, more slowly."

A sudden and intense wave of exhaustion hit her. It almost felt like a physical force slamming into her, pressing her harder against Dragon's side. Even being up on her knees began to seem like more than she could manage; an impossible demand. She slumped sideways into a sitting position, then, with a monumental effort, shifted herself around so that she was leaning her back against Dragon; supported. Protected.

 _Safe_.

She realized dimly that she hadn't really thought she'd ever be safe again, either.

She let her head fall back against him, face tipped toward the sky, and sighed; all the tension running out of her, her eyelids trying hard, now, to drag themselves shut. A quick internal assessment confirmed that she was still shaking with shock and reaction, but it seemed distant and unimportant at the moment.

"Druh…Dragon?" she said dazedly. "Gunther… does not want me… to go to sleep. All right?"

"Jane?" A distinctly troubled tone had crept into Dragon's voice.

"I love you, Dragon." Her voice was barely audible. A feeling of pleasant security was settling over her like a warm, heavy blanket. The others would finish quelling what little remained of the outlaws' resistance. There was no more she could do. Dragon was with her; she was safe. She could rest. She could finally… _finally_ …

Her eyes had drifted almost entirely shut when she bolted abruptly back up in a panic. Part of that (a _good_ part of it, probably) was Dragon shouting her name – " _JANE!_ " – sounding suddenly panicked in his _own_ right. But that wasn't all of it. There was also the realization of one more thing she simply had to do – a loose end that _must_ be tied up before they left this awful place.

" _Arrows_ ," she gasped, eyes once again wide open. "Dragon! The arrows, they –" leaning heavily against him, she forced herself back to her feet. Her head was _really_ swimming by now and she swayed dizzily for a moment, throwing out a hand to steady herself against Dragon's shoulder before she found her footing.

He fixed her with a deeply worried golden eye. "Jane, I really think you should sit back d–"

" _No!_ Dragon, they had a whole quiver of those awful arrows, the poisoned ones, we can _not_ just leave them here, even if we subdue everyone in the camp, there could be others hiding in the woods or… or… someone could just… stumble onto them… we have to… _I_ have to…"

She trailed off and took a deep breath. Tried to will herself calm. Tried to will the world to stop spinning. She swallowed hard. Stood up a little straighter. "Just wait here a moment. I have to get those poisoned arrows and then I need you to incinerate them, burn them to ash, until there is _nothing left_. All right? I will be right back."

He clearly had grave doubts and would certainly have accompanied her. But although they were no more than a few yards from the command tent, the tree cover became thicker in that direction, making it impossible for him to maneuver. It was no matter. The fighting was over with; the outlaws' resistance was broken. Limping back toward the tent, Jane made eye contact with Gunther who was a short distance away, binding one of the men who had surrendered. She gave him a tired nod and angled her chin toward the tent; he nodded back, understanding perfectly, no words necessary.

In spite of everything, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips – an instant of simple appreciation for the easy, non-verbal communication they shared.

And then something happened that changed… _everything_.


	38. Chapter 38

(A/N: There are no words.)

* * *

Her senses were dulled; she did not realize that one of the charred bodies she was picking her way past was still stirring… until a hand shot out, grabbed her by the ankle – her _good_ ankle – and yanked.

Jane had been unsteady on her feet already. Now, with all her weight suddenly shifted to her injured leg, she fell hard.

She was so compromised, she wasn't even able to properly panic in that moment. She _knew_ that this was bad, as she rolled from her stomach onto her back, the wind thoroughly knocked out of her. But everything seemed _removed_ somehow, almost as if it were happening to someone else, and so even the sudden horror she felt as her assailant lurched up onto his knees and loomed over her, had a detached – almost clinical – quality. It took her a few seconds to even recognize that this… this _creature_ was Marten. Although perhaps that wasn't so surprising, considering.

There was little left to recognize. He was a ruin, a burnt horror. Hair charred away, skin blackened and cracked, oozing a colorless discharge, his face – what was left of it, anyway – frozen in a rictus of agony and hate.

But for all that, he was still alive; still moving, and still oh so very _dangerous_ – he had a knife clenched in one charred and claw-like hand.

"You lying… little… _whore_ ," he rasped, raising it over her heart, and Dragon was bellowing – but it was Gunther who reached her, just as the blade began to descend. He launched himself into the air when it became apparent that simply running would not close the distance in time, and so ended up colliding full-force with the snarling _nightmare_ that had been the outlaw captain.

Both men slammed to the ground beside Jane and then proceeded to roll a short distance away, grappling, struggling furiously with each other. Their altercation was intense, but it was brief. Jane was just pushing herself gingerly into a sitting position, absolutely stunned by this turn of events, trying to get a handle on everything that had just happened, when her husband disengaged.

" _Gunther!_ " it was a breathless scream as finally, belatedly, the panic set in. She forced herself to her knees, then to her feet – only to stagger alarmingly, her vision going black around the edges. She started to fall but then he was there, right there, catching and steadying her.

"Jane… Jane… hey… s'all right." He was murmuring steadily, soothingly, as she clung frantically to him, shaking like a leaf. "Jane… look at me. I need… I need to _see_ you. _Jane?_ "

She raised her eyes to his, hands fisted against his shoulders. "Gun…Gunther… did you... is he…?"

"Dead," he said, eyes locked on hers, grey on green. There was a strange light in them, something… something about his eyes. She couldn't pin it down, but it sparked a sudden, deep unease in her. A sense that something was terribly wrong.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked urgently.

"No," she croaked.

"Good," he said, and smiled. It had been so _long_ since she'd seen him smile. It was startling. It was _beautiful_. And it frightened her to death. It made her breath catch and her heart stutter in her chest.

"That is good," he said again, and it was then that she realized he was only steadying her with one arm. The other was wrapped, tight, around his midsection. She understood then, and as understanding came, his legs buckled, and suddenly _she_ was supporting _him_ – but only for a second because she couldn't, she just _couldn't_ , not with her ankle the way it was.

They went to their knees together.

"No," she breathed. "no, no, no, _no_ –"

"S'all right," he said again. "Jane… it was my turn… my turn to reach _you_ … in time."

"No." She was still whispering. She couldn't get any force behind her words. This wasn't happening. This _could not_ be happening. "Please God, no… Gunther – no."

His eyes clouded with a sudden spasm of pain, and although he gritted his teeth and tried to fight it, in the next instant he was falling away from her.

"NO!" she cried, almost startled, in that moment, to find that she still _had_ a voice. It was the first actual sound she'd made since she'd realized… realized… She caught him as best she could, slipping a hand behind his head and easing him to the ground. "Gunther, NO! You cannot do this – you _WILL NOT_ do this _– NO!_ "

Sir Theodore was there then, throwing himself to his knees opposite her, prying Gunther's arm gently but firmly away from his body. Jane's eyes flashed from her mentor's suddenly ashen face, to the wound he'd just uncovered, over to the knife that was still clutched in Marten's dead, blackened hand; a knife that was bloody, now, all the way to the hilt.

Then Smithy was there too, thrusting a piece of fabric at Sir Theodore, who wadded it up and pressed it hard against Gunther, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Gunther jerked and hissed a sharp breath in through his teeth; Jane's eyes flew back to his face, to find _his_ eyes fixed steadily on her own.

"Jane," he said, and his voice was strained, but calm, "will you – " he swallowed hard – "keep looking at me?"

She gave a single jerky nod, eased her hand carefully out from under his head, and brushed a few stray locks of dark hair back from his forehead. Then she pressed her palm to the side of his face; held it there. With her other hand, she groped for _his_ … found it… laced her fingers through his, held on.

She didn't realize she'd started to cry until she saw the tears begin pattering down on his face; didn't realize she'd started to hyperventilate until he squeezed her hand and said, still in that strained-but-calm voice, "Jane. Breathe."

"Only as long as _you_ do," she choked.

He squeezed her hand again, although more weakly this time. Gave his head an infinitesimal shake. "No," he said, and now she had to strain to hear him. "No matter what, Jane."

" _WHY?_ " she demanded. The word came out as a sob.

"Because I am asking you to. Because I love you."

Rapid-fire voices all around her; Sir Theodore, Smithy, Dragon too. She could hear them, but didn't register a thing they were saying. It didn't matter. What could it possibly matter? What could _anything_ possibly matter in the face of.. of _this?_

"Not… fair," she gasped. "That is _not fair_ , Gunther! You said yourself that _you_ would not be strong enough to lose _me_ –"

"I know," he said. Whispering now. "But it is… different, Jane –"

"It is _not d_ –"

"It is. You are stronger… far stronger than me. You al…always… have been." His eyes slipped shut.

" _NO!_ Gunther, no! Look, look at me – at _me_ – _STAY_ with me!"

He prised first one eye open, then the other. "M'right here. You have me. You have… always… had me."

Her heart twisted. "We have _each other_. Gunther! I need you too!"

His brow furrowed, just the smallest bit. "How… is your head? Sleepy?"

" _No!_ " She wasn't actually answering his question per se. Her 'no' was much, much broader than that. She was no-ing this entire situation, the world and everything in it, fate, God, the universe, all of it.

Categorically. All of it. Because this couldn't be happening. This was _not allowed to happen_.

But Gunther took it for an answer.

"Good," he whispered. His eyes drifted shut again.

"GUNTHER!"

He squeezed her hand. "Stay… _awake_ ," he breathed.

"Then stay _with_ me!" She leaned close over him, her hair tumbling down around them both, curtaining them off from the rest of the world. "Gunther! _Please!_ "

He pulled in a shallow, hitching breath, his face still lined with pain. "…always… with you… Jane."

She swallowed a sob and closed the last bit of distance between them to press a gentle, lingering kiss on his lips. She felt them curve against hers, the ghost of a smile, but at the very same time his hand was relaxing in hers, all the tension seeming to run out of him like water from a sieve.

She pulled back, eyes riveted on his pale, dirt-smudged, blood-streaked face. "Gunther."

No response.

" _Gunther!_ "

Nothing.

Panting. Frantic. The world was spinning crazily. She pulled her hand free of his and fisted it in the stiff leather of his jerkin, high up where his chest met his shoulder. Shook him. "GUNTHER!"

Still. Nothing.

"NO! NO, do you hear me!? _NO! YOU CANNOT_ DO _THIS! WAKE_ UP!"

Panic like she'd never known was clawing its way up her throat. No longer even aware of what she was doing, she took her other hand, the one that had been cupping the side of his face, and with an inarticulate cry that was half-sob, half-scream, hauled off and _slapped_ him.

Anything. _Anything_ to evoke some kind of response.

But that failed too.

Then she was just screaming. And dear God in heaven, it _hurt_ to scream with her throat the way it was, but she couldn't stop herself. She didn't think she'd ever stop _again_. She couldn't do this. She couldn't _do_ this. He'd said she was strong, but she wasn't, not strong enough to withstand something like _this_.

No.

Which, incidentally, was the word she kept shrieking, over and over and over again.

"NO! NO! NO NO NO NO NO! GUNTHER! GUNTHER, _NO!_ "


	39. Chapter 39

"NO! GUNTHER! _NO!_ "

 _Hands. Strong, warm, insistent_.

"WAKE UP! GUNTHER, _NOW!_ "

 _Tugging at her, trying to pull her away_.

"NO! You cannot do this, I _WILL NOT_ LET _YOU!_ "

 _Murmur of voices. She doesn't understand what they are saying to her. And she doesn't_ care.

"Gunther, please! God, no! _PLEASE!_ " She still had one hand fisted in his jerkin. Someone was trying to pull her away, but she held on for dear life. Fiercely. _Desperately_. She couldn't let go of him. To let go of him was to give up on him, to admit that… that…

 _NO_.

She wrenched free, threw herself forward, and buried her face in his chest. Hysterical. She was beyond reason, beyond consolation.

"Get… _away!_ " she panted, barely understandable, frantic as a trapped animal, furious with their interference. "Leave… us _alone!_ "

The hands retreated, although the voices continued volleying back and forth above her. She couldn't have cared less about that. All she cared about was holding onto Gunther, and nothing – _nothing_ – was going to pry her away from him.

"Come back," she choked out between awful, wrenching, heartbroken sobs. "Come back. Gunther. Come _back!_ " There were a million other things ricocheting around in her brain, things she wanted, _needed_ , to tell him, to make him understand; a million ways in which she loved him, a million reasons that she could not, _COULD NOT_ lose him.

 _The solid warmth of him snugged up to her at night._

 _The teasing, provoking light in his eyes when they sparred._

 _The simmering,_ dangerous _light in his eyes that she sometimes glimpsed when their travels took them far from home, and they would enter some country inn for the night, and other men would turn to look at her._

 _The way his hair felt sliding through her fingers; so soft, so_ manageable _, the perfect antithesis of her own._

 _The feeling she got when she opened her eyes in the morning to find him already awake, lying there and watching her, just_ watching _her, looking at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen._

 _The way he would try to distract her during their practice matches – and would sometimes even succeed._

 _The way they knew each other so well, they could communicate without words._

 _How it felt to fall asleep in his arms after lovemaking, all their limbs entwined, pressed so close together that they were almost one being, sometimes with him still inside of her._

 _His scent of leather and clean sweat._

 _The expression of fierce concentration he got when practicing his archery._

 _The manner he took when presiding over training exercises with Cuthbert and Lavinia; stern, but also patient, supportive, encouraging._

 _The fact that he'd become a_ good man _, one of the best she knew, despite a childhood that had been so tragically lacking in kindness and love._

 _Hell, even his invariably horrible jokes._

All of this, and a thousand, thousand things more.

But she was in such agony, such unbelievable heart-rending despair, that the only thing she could verbalize in that moment was this simple, repetitive message.

 _Come back. Come back. Do not leave me here. I cannot_ do _this. Come back, come back, God in heaven,_ please _, you have to come_ back.

Then a single hand took her by the wrist, gently but firmly. She stiffened, but before she could really begin to mount a resistance she found her hand being slid beneath Gunther's jerkin, flush against his skin, directly over his heart, and pressed down hard. She stilled, first out of simple surprise and bafflement.

But then – _then_ –

Her breath caught.

She brought her head up with a jerk, her eyes immediately flying back to his face, searching feverishly for any sign, any visible corroboration to what she was feeling.

There was nothing. His face was deathly pale and horrifyingly still. And yet… and yet…

"You feel it," Sir Theodore said. It was not a question. His was the hand that was holding her own, pressed down firmly over…

 _Over Gunther's heartbeat_.

She shifted her eyes from Gunther's face down to his wound – it was Smithy, she saw, who was applying pressure now – and finally back up to meet her mentor's gaze, but she didn't speak. She _couldn't_ speak. Simply stared at him in helpless, mute appeal as she tried to swallow her sobs, tried to regain some measure of control over herself.

"Jane, are you with me now?" the older knight asked.

She tried to answer him – couldn't – swallowed convulsively – tried again.

"Y-yes," she managed to croak. And then, "can… we… help him?"

"I hope so," Sir Theodore said gravely. "His heart is still beating, he is still breathing – faintly, but steadily… so far. He is strong, Jane, you _know_ that – and he will fight with everything he has. He is no more ready to lose you than _you_ are to lose _him_. But in truth, there is little that can be done for him here. We have to get him home. _You_ – and _Dragon_ – have to get him home. You will need to keep steady pressure on the wound as you go. _Can_ you?" His eyes were traveling over her, cataloguing all the many bruises and hurts, concern mounting in his expression. "Jane, I need the truth. Gunther's life depends on it. How badly injured _are_ you?"

"I – I am –" it was on the tip of her tongue to give her standard response, _I am all right, I am fine_ – but she forced herself to stop and reconsider.

 _Gunther's life depends on it_ , Sir Theodore had said, and the old knight was not prone to exaggeration. She had to be honest in this moment. Honest with him, honest with herself.

"I… have… taken multiple blows to my head. Guh… Gunther… thought… I might have a concussion."

Something flickered behind Sir Theodore's eyes, but outwardly he continued to project the same steady sense of calm.

"Are you unsteady?" he asked, voice and eyes intent.

"I… yes."

"All right. I will send Smithy with you as well. Do you think you can get Gunther back to the castle between the two of you?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then there is no time to lose," Sir Theodore said.


	40. Chapter 40

_Flying_.

The castle had never seemed so far away.

By tearing fabric into strips, and tying the strips tightly around Gunther, they had ensured that the makeshift dressing that had been pressed down over his wound would remain firmly in place. Someone still needed to apply a deep and steady pressure, though, and that was where Smithy came in.

He'd settled himself astride Dragon first, then Sir Theodore and Jane had maneuvered Gunther into position in front of him, leaning back against the blacksmith. Smithy had locked his arms around Gunther's middle, accomplishing two objectives at once; holding him securely on Dragon, and keeping pressure on the wound. Jane had thought that Smithy seemed remarkably calm and composed as he faced the prospect of riding Dragon for the first time – until she'd remembered that this _wasn't_ the first time. Smithy had _arrived_ at the outlaws' camp on Dragon's back.

A fact that still amazed her.

As for Jane herself, she had ducked back into Marten's command tent and retrieved the arrows, then watched as Dragon had reduced them to nothing but a pile of fine, sifting grey ash, before climbing onto his back herself. Distressingly, the arrowheads had not burned entirely, but Sir Theodore had promised to bury them before departing the camp himself, to make for the castle on foot with the two young town men and the prisoners they had taken.

With all of those logistics taken care of, it had been time to fly. Jane had settled herself in front of Gunther, so that he was sandwiched between her and Smithy; as safe and protected as anyone could be while unconscious on dragonback.

Further, she'd positioned herself facing _toward_ Gunther rather than away from him; so that she was actually straddling Dragon _backward_ … something she had never done before. It felt intensely strange, and did nothing to help with her increasingly strong sense of disorientation. But it permitted her to wrap her arms – and to a certain extent, even her legs – around her husband, anchoring him even more securely in place.

That, and it allowed her to keep her head nestled against his chest, listening constantly for his heartbeat.

So now they were flying, and the wind was rushing, cold, against her back, and that felt so _wrong_ – but then, everything about the situation was wrong, wasn't it? At least she was shielding Gunther from the worst of the wind; there was that much to be thankful for, anyway.

But they had so far to go! And she knew that Dragon was flying as quickly as he could, but even so it felt like one of those nightmares where she would run, and run, and run, and never cover any distance at all.

And then there was the drowsiness that was trying – trying _hard_ – to settle over her, to claim her. It was coming in waves that were only increasing in frequency and intensity.

Every time one of these waves broke over her, a little more forcefully than the time before, she would bite down on her lip, tighten her arms around Gunther still further, and dig her fingernails into her palms, willing herself to stay alert.

It had worked so far, but it was becoming more and more of a struggle. A deep and dangerous lethargy was seeping through her. Try as she might, she could not reverse it, could not even halt it in its tracks. All of her efforts were serving only to slow its advance.

It was winning. Slowly but surely, it was winning.

 _No. Have to stay awake. For Gunther_.

It was the last thing he'd asked her to do. She couldn't let him down. She couldn't _fail_ him in this. She'd already failed him badly enough by not realizing… not realizing that Marten…

 _No_. She couldn't go that route. Not even if it was true. There would be plenty of time for self-recriminations later. Right now she had to focus on Gunther. On _Gunther_.

To distract herself, she raised her head from his chest to steal a glance at his face, as she'd done periodically since they'd taken off.

This time was different from all the others, though – because this time, his eyes were open.

Jane's breath caught in her throat. She felt absolutely sucker-punched by the sight of those cool grey eyes, realizing in that moment that a very real, very _large_ part of her had believed she'd never see them _again_.

" _Gunther!_ " Overwhelmed. Weak with relief. The wind was whipping her hair around her face. She unlocked one of her arms from around him; dragged up her hand, stiff and uncooperative from cold, to push the flame-colored curls out of her eyes.

 _His_ eyes had been dazed and distant, but he blinked at the sound of her voice; focused on her face. For a space of several heartbeats he simply looked at her, drinking her in. Then the corner of his mouth quirked up in a tiny, lopsided smile.

"Jane," he said hoarsely. And then, quietly, almost reverently, "so beautiful."

Then he sighed, and his eyes slipped shut, and he was gone again.

"Gunther," she whispered, but there was no response. Her throat closed up, eyes suddenly swimming with tears, vision blurring. She leaned forward impulsively and kissed him, hard, crashing her lips against his as her hair blew wildly about both of them. Pulling back just enough to draw in a deep, shuddery breath, she could actually feel her lips moving against his when she spoke again.

"Stay with me," she murmured. "Gunther? Do you hear me? When it was my turn, I fought to stay with you and now I expect the same in return, do you understand? You fight your way through this - you are _not allowed_ to leave me, so fight, Gunther Breech! Damn it, _FIGHT!_ "

The sobs took her then, and she let them. She sealed her lips to his in one more fierce, almost bruising kiss – a kiss that tasted achingly of salt. Then she dropped her head to his shoulder, wrapped her arms around him even tighter than before, and cried, and cried, and cried.

There was this much to be said for the tears, at least – they left fiery trails that warmed her cheeks, and for as long as they kept coming, wracking her body with their force, she knew she'd stay awake.


	41. Chapter 41

They landed hard, and perhaps that was a good thing, because by then Jane had fallen semi-conscious at best. It felt as if ages had passed since she'd last raised her head from Gunther's chest, and the only thing that had been keeping her tethered to herself at all anymore was the fact that she'd decided to try and count his heartbeats…

But even so she'd fallen into something akin to a trance, and a deep one at that, by the time Dragon touched down in the castle courtyard.

That brought her around, to some degree anyway, although her body had gone largely numb and unresponsive – a fact that should have been alarming, but somehow just… wasn't.

"Jane?"

Groggily, she raised her head. The voice was almost in her ear, and her heart wanted to believe it was Gunther who had spoken, but she knew it wasn't so.

Gunther's head rested against Smithy's shoulder as it had for the duration of the flight, face tipped slightly upward, skyward, pale and still and expressionless, eyes shut.

 _Smithy_ , however, was looking at her with deep concern. "We are home. Are you all right? Can you get down?"

"I… I think I… can."

 _Shouting voices. Footsteps approaching at a run_.

It took Jane three tries just to successfully swing her leg over Dragon. All of her limbs felt leaden, and the instant her feet hit the ground she knew, without question, that her legs would not support her. Not even the uninjured one, not anymore.

She started to crumple, but then a pair of arms caught her from behind, steadying her on her feet – to the extent that she was capable of being steadied, at any rate.

"Rake?" she croaked, for she knew that was who had her; she was coming back into herself, a little bit at least… enough to recognize the slim but wiry-strong arms that were holding her, the clean-earth scent of her childhood friend.

"Jane." His voice was uncharacteristically rough in her ear; tight with anxiety, nearly shaking. "Jane, what –"

But Rake, quiet by nature even when clearly upset, was drowned out at that point by Sir Ivon, who had just arrived at a run, puffing like a bellows, his normally florid complexion going instantly pasty at the sight of Jane, Smithy – and Gunther.

Especially Gunther.

"What ill news is this!?" the older knight demanded, horrorstruck, as he moved to help Smithy slide Gunther down from Dragon's back. " _Gunther!?_ Is he…? Say he is not –"

"Not dead," Smithy said grimly. And then, "not yet."

Jane had just been getting her legs under her, although her injured ankle had been shrieking in protest – but her knees buckled all over again at those words. Swearing under his breath – something she had never, _ever_ heard him do before – Rake lowered her gently to a sitting position on the ground.

She wanted – no, she _needed_ – to get over to where Ivon and Smithy were crouching beside Gunther's prone form, but everything was spinning so severely by then. She dropped her head between her knees for a moment, trying to breathe through, trying to regain just a little bit of control over herself, over the situation.

It was a doomed enterprise. There was no mastering what had happened to her, what had happened to _Gunther_. Maybe at some point in the future, if ( _no, when, damnit, WHEN_ ) they were both recovered and this was all just a terrible memory – but at present? Just no. No way.

Her breaths were coming faster and shallower. The polar opposite of asserting control, she was edging back toward hyperventilation. She noted, distantly, that Rake was rubbing her back in an apparent attempt to soothe her… or maybe just to warm her up. He was also speaking softly to her, but she wasn't comprehending a word he said.

Pepper and Dragon both entered her field of vision then, appearing at nearly the same time, albeit from opposite directions.

"Oh, Petal!" Pepper cried, sinking to her knees beside her husband, her eyes going impossibly huge as she took in the bruises and blood that more or less covered every exposed inch of Jane's body. She folded Jane into her arms then, just as Dragon nudged his way up to her side, offering Jane the solid warmth of his massive cheek as additional support.

Jane had thought she surely must be out of tears, but as it turned out, that was not the case. Exhausted, hurt to the core of her being, with her head resting on Pepper's shoulder, a moment later she was sobbing again – the same phrase, over and over, almost too broken to understand.

"I cuh… can… not… lose him, Pepper, I cuh… cuh… I, I –"

" _Jane!_ " Pepper herself dissolved into tears, gathering Jane even closer, rocking her like a child, stroking her tangled hair.

"Shh, oh Jane, shhh… it will be all right. It will work out somehow, it will…"

Finally, shuddering, Jane pulled back and sat up straight, scrubbing a grimy hand across her face, gasping and hiccupping… only to see Sir Ivon and Smithy disappearing down the short flight of steps into the kitchen, carrying Gunther between them.

Shaking off Pepper's restraining hands, she immediately scrambled back to her feet, leaning heavily on Dragon. "I have to stay with him! Pepper, _I have to!_ "

Pepper and Rake each slung an arm around her, snugging her between them. "I know, Petal," the dark-haired woman said, her own voice nearly as choked as Jane's, "I know, dear one. We will take you, come on."

Jane couldn't walk away, though, without turning back to Dragon. It was the first good look she'd gotten at him since they'd landed and when she really _saw_ him, she broke away from her friends and threw her arms around him as best she could.

Because he looked several degrees beyond exhausted, and thoroughly miserable.

"I am sorry, Jane," he said quietly, and he even _sounded_ drained, just… utterly spent. "I flew as fast as I –"

"I know," she said, her own voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "I know, Greenlips, it is all right, you did beautifully. You need to rest, you…" she swallowed hard, one hand stroking his scaled cheek absently. "Get some sleep, all right? I will find you when… I –"

She broke off as a new wave of fatigue and vertigo, the first since they'd landed and the most intense so far, crashed over her. She staggered where she stood, Rake reaching once again to steady her. "I think I… had better lie… duh… down," she managed, through lips that seemed suddenly nerveless and numb. It was actually more than that; it was that if she didn't _lie_ down, she would _fall_ down. The sheer weight of her exhaustion felt as if it were driving her into the ground.

Dragon fixed her with an anxious, golden eye. "You are not supposed to sleep, Jane –"

"I know," she said again, and now she was no more than breathing the words. "I know, and I have to… have to… find…" she trailed off, unable for a moment even to finish her thought. What did she have to find? The world was pulling away from her, receding, like the sea pulling back from the shore. Even her vision was narrowing down, darkening more and more around the edges.

What did she have to _find?_

"Gunther." Her voice was slow; dreamy. "I have to… find… Gunther. Anyway. Before I… can rest."

Dragon turned his attention to Rake. "Do _not_ let her go to sleep, shortlife."

"Why n–"

"No one _told_ me why not," Dragon said, his voice suddenly dangerous, "but I _was_ told, very clearly, that she _must not sleep,_ understand?"

"No," Rake said frankly, "I do not understand at all, but if it is that important, I will… pass it along."

"See that you do," Dragon fairly growled, then turned his attention back to Jane. "Coppertop? Hey… Jane? Hello?"

Her eyes, when she met his gaze again, were as green as jewels… and almost entirely unfocused. As distant, dazed and dreamy as her voice had been.

"Dragon," she said. The word hung in the air as if she'd intended to follow it up with more speech, but she said nothing else. She had just noticed that the quality of the air was changing; it was acquiring mass, substance, a thick viscosity that made it feel as if she were actually swimming through the atmosphere. She almost expected to see her hair cloud out around her head as though she were actually underwater.

It was not altogether unpleasant.

But it was _very_ strange, and some distant corner of her mind was railing that it was very, very _wrong_ as well.

"What is happening to the air?" she asked finally, sounding downright drugged at this point.

She heard Dragon demand, " _NOW_ do you understand?"

Heard Rake say, "I am beginning to."

It sounded as if they were both a hundred miles away.

Rake was turning her then, steering her across the courtyard toward the kitchen; taking most of her weight as she leaned against him, limping badly; telling her he was taking her to Gunther, that Pepper had gone ahead to try and help Smithy and Ivon in caring for him. She hadn't even realized that Pepper had vanished from her side.

She heard Dragon, behind her, call out – "I will be right here, Jane! I am not going anywhere." She knew she should answer him, but she couldn't find it in herself to do so.

She heard – distantly, barely – other footsteps approaching, other voices calling. She thought she heard her mother's voice crying her name; the king's, the queen's, shouting for news of Lavinia.

But they had reached the short flight of steps which led down into the castle kitchen by then, were actually halfway down them, when she heard something else – something that froze her blood and stopped her heart and shattered her world into a million irretrievable pieces.

It was Pepper's voice. Panicked; grief-stricken.

"Smithy, we are losing him!" And then, a bare instant later, "I think… I think that he is gone."

"No." It came first as a whisper, only to be repeated a second later as an agonized, heart-rending scream; " ** _NO-!_** "

She wrenched herself away from Rake and then she was falling, tumbling down the rest of the steps, the flagstone floor rushing up to meet her. She tried to catch herself, to break her fall, but she lacked either the coordination or the strength, and her head impacted with a sickening crack that was devastating in its finality.


	42. Chapter 42

_Please no. Please no. Please no. No._

She hadn't really heard Pepper say that. She was trapped in a nightmare.

 _Please no_.

She was lying on her back.

 _No_.

On the kitchen floor.

 _Gunther, no_.

At the foot of the steps.

 _I cannot do this_.

Fighting to maintain consciousness.

 _You cannot leave me_.

Knowing it was a losing battle.

 _You said… I would never have to…_

Knowing the darkness was coming for her.

 _Let_ go _of you again… you said_ …

And beginning to question why that was bad thing.

 _Gunther_ …

After all, if what Pepper had said was true…

 _Please_ …

If it was true...

 _No_.

Then let it come.

Let the darkness come.

* * *

Still there was a spark of will deep inside her that refused to be extinguished, that was determined to hold on until the last second, until it was utterly overwhelmed.

It was a spark of will that was still hell-bent, against all odds, on reaching Gunther; a spark of will that yearned toward him like a compass needle toward magnetic north. It wanted her to walk, or limp, or crawl, or _drag_ herself – whatever it took to cross the distance between them.

But she could do none of that. So she did the only thing left, the only thing she could; she turned her head, seeking him with her eyes.

Her vision was blurry and although she blinked hard several times, she was unable to bring it back into focus. Still, she could just make him out – the form of him, at least, if not any of the details.

He was lying on his back like she was, up on one of Pepper's scrubbed-wood prep tables, stripped to the waist, freshly bandaged, and oh God, so _pale_ …

 _Blood_ , she thought groggily, disjointedly. _He has lost… so much_ blood…

One of his arms was trailing over the edge of the table, and it looked as if he had a rust-colored glove on his hand; dried blood, she realized – his, and hers, all mixed together. She literally, physically _ached_ to take that hand in hers, to lace her fingers through it as they had in the outlaws' command tent, and hold on, and hold on, and never _ever_ let go. She could face anything with his hand in hers. Without it… without it… she wasn't even sure she could keep breathing.

But it was his _face_ that destroyed her, even though she couldn't make out any of its familiar and much-loved contours; not from this distance, and not with her vision so hopelessly out of whack.

Even though he was sprawled on his back, his face was tilted toward her, mirroring almost exactly the way that _hers_ was tilted toward _him_.

It was as if he had his _own_ compass needle buried somewhere deep inside, drawing him to her as surely as _hers_ drew her to him.

They were linked. He sensed it even in whatever state had overtaken him, unconsciousness, or… or death…

 _Not death. Not that. Please God. Say no. I cannot… I cannot… I_ …

People were crowding around her now, pressing close. Murmuring words she couldn't understand, faces hanging over her; pale, scared. Rake, her mother, even the king and queen. She was aware of them, but only peripherally. She saw them, but she didn't _see_ them – didn't really register them at all.

What she registered was Pepper's elbows on the scrubbed wood table; her face dropped forward into her hands, her dark hair spilling through her fingers and her shoulders shaking as she cried.

What she registered was Smithy bent close over Gunther, listening for his heartbeat, it seemed, just as she had done during their flight home. She wished she could make out the expression on his face, but try as she might, she just couldn't.

What she registered was the pile of makeshift dressings and bindings that had been hastily discarded in favor of real bandages. They were absolutely sodden; crimson, soaked with blood.

Looking at them hurt too much. Her eyes were drawn back to his face, for all that she couldn't make out the details.

She didn't have to; she knew them by heart, after all.

 _Gunther_. Her lips formed his name soundlessly. She took a shuddering breath. She'd had her arms snugged protectively around her body but now, seemingly of its own volition, without any conscious intent at all, one of them stretched out toward him.

It was hopeless, of course; he was half a room away. Too much distance separated them, and neither one of them was in any condition to cross that empty space.

Didn't matter. Against all odds, she reached for her husband.

But then someone knelt down directly in her line of sight, and Gunther was lost to her, and that was when the darkness finally claimed her.


	43. Chapter 43

She floated.

In a haze of pain, in a world of shifting shadows, she floated. At some moments she was nearly conscious; aware, if only distantly, of dark shapes moving around her. Of voices murmuring quietly, the words they were speaking always just out of reach of her exhausted, hurt and traumatized mind. Of hands on her body, hands that seemed gentle, but always brought more pain.

They would touch her injured ankle, and the pain there would crescendo. They would brush her hair back from her forehead, touch her battered temple, and the pain _there_ would crescendo.

The slash along her collarbone, the gash across her hip. The garish bruises on her throat; her rope-burned, sliced-up wrists. Everywhere those hands touched, they trailed pain like tendrils of fire.

Sometimes she managed a whimper in response. Sometimes she couldn't manage any response at all.

At other times, a deep and silent darkness overtook her. And in depthless black waters, she floated.

She had no concept of day or night, of the passage of time. She might have spent an hour in that state, or a week, or a year.

An indeterminable amount of time later, the density of the blackness began to lessen, and dreams started seeping through. Well, _a_ dream; there was only the one, repeated over and over. Gunther's hand being wrenched out of hers. Again. And again.

And again.

Not pleasant, But at least it meant that she was swimming her way, slowly but surely, back toward consciousness.

Then a moment came that a hand brushed the side of her face and she was aware enough - (although still not quite able to open her eyes) - that she reached up with her _own_ hand and caught the person's wrist.

"Gunther?" she croaked.

But the voice that floated down to her, through sifting layers of grey, was not her husband's... not even a man's.

"Shh, Jane," Pepper murmured gently. "Rest."

"No... puh...Pepper..."

"Shhhh, Petal, you are not yet well. You need to _rest._ "

And the hell of it was, Pepper was _right_. She was already being pulled back under. Unconsciousness - or maybe at this point it was just a very deep sleep - claimed her again.

* * *

She blinked her eyes open and lay staring at the ceiling above her, waiting for it to come into focus, full consciousness returning at last.

For a long moment she didn't move, and when she did, she began with her extremities. It was something she'd learned in combat training, testing the different parts of herself, searching for obvious problems before embarking on any large movements.

 _Fingers... toes... wrists... ankles_. She sucked in a hurt little breath. There was an issue there. While the pain was less than it had been, the twinge from her injured ankle was still significant. It also felt oddly stiff... tightly bandaged, she realized.

All right, on with the assessment.

Her arms and legs seemed in good working order, ankle excepted. Only then did she lift a hand from the coverlet and bring it up, shaking slightly, first to her throat - and then to her head.

More bandages, her hair sticking out between and around them in crazy corkscrew curls. She winced again as she tentatively traced the contours of her bindings, her fingers ending up inevitably pressed to her still-very-tender temple.

 _Calm your breathing. Take it slow._

Inhale. Exhale. She swallowed hard, then lifted her head from the pillow, levering herself carefully up on her elbows. She saw that she was wearing a simple linen shift over her battered and bandaged body.

Then dizziness washed over her, and she collapsed back with a groan.

What had happened? Throughout this whole process of self-assessment, the reason for her condition had been... hovering in the background of her mind. Reluctant to come forward. Or more accurately... _she_ was reluctant to _bring_ it forward. She sensed that it was something she really didn't want to look at head-on. And not necessarily because of her physical injuries, either... no, there was something worse. Something _far_ worse, and she didn't want to confront it, didn't want to, _didn't want to_.

But she _needed_ to, didn't she?

She needed to, because she was home, but she was also alone, and that was wrong. Very wrong. So what -?

She shot into a sitting position, heart suddenly pounding, eyes wild, dizziness be damned. For a second or two, the room tilted so severely to the side that she actually thought she might be in danger of sliding right off the edge of the bed. Then things righted themselves again... at least, more or less.

"Gunther." She exhaled his name, her eyes already roving the room, frantically seeking any sign of her husband.

He wasn't there.

Nor was anyone else.

" _Gunther!_ " Still dizzy, aware on a rational level that she really ought to stay still, she shoved off her covers and swung her legs unsteadily over the edge of the bed. Her first attempt to stand sent her spilling to her knees, panting with exertion and steadily mounting panic. Using the side of the bed for leverage, she fought her way back to her feet.

Then, limping heavily, she made her way to the door. She stuck close to the wall, using it for support.

Just as she reached for the handle, the door opened from the other side, throwing her off-balance. She fell forward, directly into the arms of a very surprised Pepper, who staggered but managed to keep them both upright.

"Where is he?" Jane rasped; her throat still felt slightly raw, even now. She was terribly thirsty too, but that was of secondary importance. There was only one thing she really cared about in this moment.

"Jane!" Pepper was too astonished to answer, instead firing off barely-coherent questions of her own. "When did you - how did you - _where_ are you g-"

"Jane's fingers dug into her friend's shoulders. The redhead, in that instant, was desperation made incarnate. "Pepper! _WHERE - IS - HE!?_ "

"In... in my old chamber off the kitchen," Pepper stammered. "To make it easier to care for his wound. Jane -"

"You said he was dead," Jane interrupted, memories returning in a rush. "I heard you, you - you said he was _gone_ -"

"I thought he was," Pepper said, shifting her weight as she struggled to continue holding Jane up. "For a few minutes there, we all did. But then he took a deep breath, and... and..."

"And what?" Jane whispered.

"And said your name."

Jane gave a choked sob, and her legs buckled.

"Petal!" Pepper eased her into a sitting position on the floor, back propped against the stone wall. "Wait here. Do not move, you hear me? I am going to get Rake, and we will take you to Gunther, but only if you _stay still_ until we get back! So help me Jane, if you are not in this _exact spot_ , I will not take you anywhere except back to bed!"

Jane nodded dumbly. In that moment, it was all she could do. Her head was spinning, her heart was racing, and down here on the floor, she was increasingly cold.

Pepper flew off along the corridor. Jane wrapped her arms tightly about herself, trying to conserve what warmth she could, tipped her head back against the unyielding stone wall, and waited.


	44. Chapter 44

White. He was... so _white_.

That was the first thing she registered when Rake carried her into the room.

She hadn't wanted to be carried, had begun to protest rather stridently, in point of fact, when Rake had scooped her up from where she'd been sitting on the floor - but Pepper had very matter-of-factly told her that she only had two options available to her; to be carried, or to be bundled straight back into bed.

Which meant that really, there was no option at all. She _had_ to get to Gunther.

And oh God, oh _God_ \- he was nearly as white as his bandages, nearly as white as the sheets on which he lay.

Rake eased her down in a chair beside the bed; Jane instantly shifted herself onto the edge of the bed itself, leaning close over him, brushing his dark hair back from his brow, pressing her hand to the side of his face, scanning intently, _desperately_ , for any sign of vitality, of... life.

But he was as pale and still and unresponsive as he'd been back in the outlaws' camp, when he'd first slipped away from her; and the howling, hopeless sense of rage and grief and despair that she'd felt in that moment was suddenly threatening to swamp her all over again. She drew in a hitching breath, raised her head, seeking Pepper with her eyes, and managed to choke out, "how... how long has it..."

"Four days since you returned," Pepper said quietly.

"And has... has he been like... for the whole..."

"Yes. He said your name the one time, right after you... passed out. Since then... nothing. Nothing but this." Pepper's voice, her _eyes_... there was such a depth of sadness in them, mirroring Jane's own.

 _She is grieving for him_ , Jane realized. _And she is grieving for_ me. _Because she thinks I am about to lose him. She does not expect him to pull through this_.

No. NO. Pepper was wrong. Things couldn't end that way. They _couldn't_. That was not allowed.

"Can... can I..." Jane swallowed hard. Her throat was so achingly constricted that she could barely speak. She had to force the words out around a lump that felt nearly half the size of the castle. "Can I have some time... alone with him? Please?"

Rake and Pepper looked at each other, and Pepper nodded. "Of course." On her way to the door, she gave Jane's shoulder a gentle squeeze. Then she and Rake were gone, and Jane could focus her attention on Gunther.

For a long moment she just stared at him. Then she dropped a kiss on his forehead, another on his lips. Her strength was fading fast so, moving carefully, still hurt in her _own_ right, still constricted by her own bandages, she stretched out beside him with her head resting on his chest.

"I love you," she said, her voice croaky; broken. The tears began then, hot and slow, a spreading dampness against his skin. "I _need_ you. I... Gunther, come back. Oh God, please come _back_."

She lay there for a long, long time.

* * *

 _He is fourteen, glaring daggers at her as Sir Theodore praises her technique after she has bested him - once again - at staves._

"Come back to me."

 _He is fifteen, now standing_ behind _Sir Theodore while he reprimands Jane for some forgotten misdeed, mimicking the old knight's gestures and pulling ridiculous faces, trying to make her laugh and get her into even deeper trouble - trying, and succeeding._

"This is not even remotely funny. Come _back_."

 _He is sixteen, exhausted, dark hollows under his eyes. He's been training so hard - they both have. But his father's been working him for hours at the docks, both before and after his training, daily. She takes no pleasure in besting him now; how can she? To the contrary, her heart twists in her chest. She wants nothing more than to lead him to her room, make him lie down on her bed, and leave him there to sleep a whole day away. God knows he needs it. God also knows he would never accept such an offer; would respond with nothing but bitter, defensive scorn if she so much as asks him if he's even all right_.

"You cannot leave me alone."

 _He is seventeen, moving into the castle a month after the princess broke her leg; a month after Jane had realized that she was in love with him. He doesn't know she is watching him as he comes trudging into the courtyard at dusk, a single satchel slung over his shoulder, presumably holding all his worldly possessions - his break from his wealthy-yet-horrible father now irrefutably complete. He doesn't join the castle denizens for supper, so she brings a bowl of Pepper's stew to his new chambers... but there's no answer to her knock. She leaves it outside the door and returns to her tower room feeling all tangled up inside_.

"Come back. I need you. I cannot be _me_ without _you_. I do not know how anymore."

 _He is eighteen, practicing his archery, his body drawn as taut as his bow, his face a study in fierce concentration and keen perception. He is beautiful. He is_ dangerous _. He takes her breath away._

"Please. Please? You _have_ to come back."

 _He is nineteen, and she has the most horrible cold, it's the sickest she's been in years. She's clammy, achy, unbearably congested; lying in bed only half-awake, but wholly miserable. There's a knock at her door and she manages to croak out something at least approximating "come in," expecting Pepper, Jester, maybe her father. The most frequent visitor to her sickbed is her mother, but her mother doesn't bother to knock. What she_ doesn't _expect is Gunther, holding a steaming mug of tea. He crosses to the bed and places it carefully on the nightstand, then drops to one knee, bringing them more or less eye-level; she's curled on her side, as it is too difficult to breathe when lying on her back. "This is medicinal tea", he says, calmly and without preamble. "Drink it while it is hot - I promise, it will help." She just stares at him, stunned, trying to make sense of the fact that he's here, in her room; but then he's on his feet again, crossing back to the door, though he pauses for a moment with his hand on the knob. "Get better," he says; "things are... too quiet without you." And then he is gone. The tea, indeed, is_ very _effective. It soothes her congestion almost immediately, and sends her into a deep and healing sleep. When she later remembers to thank Pepper for sending it, her friend is bewildered, and informs her that she did no such thing - if Gunther brought Jane tea, then Gunther must have_ made _the tea._

"Come back. Damn you, Gunther, do not do this. Come _back_."

 _He is twenty, a proper knight now. They both are. A little boy has gone missing from the castle town and the two of them, along with many others, are searching. Jane and Gunther have struck off on their own to cover more ground and, suddenly hearing the panicked cries of a child, find themselves pelting down to a particularly craggy and foreboding stretch of shoreline. The boy is there, five years old and terrifyingly small, clinging to a rock out in the surf; he probably wandered out there at low tide, but now the tide has come in and he's trapped, in imminent danger of being swept away. Before Jane has even had time to fully process the horror of what she is seeing, Gunther has kicked off his boots, stripped to the waist, and plunged into the water. He reemerges moments later, walking out of the grey and churning sea with the sobbing, shaking child cradled against his chest. While drying the boy off as best she can, a stunned Jane remarks that she's never known he was such a strong swimmer. Jaw clenched in a not-entirely-successful attempt to keep his teeth from chattering, he grinds out just a few curt words. "Fell off a ship once. In the harbor, luckily. Thought it would be a good idea to learn after that." No more is ever said on the subject_.

"I love you. Come back."

 _He is twenty-one, on their wedding day, an expression of absolute, gob-smacked amazement on his usually guarded face when he first catches sight of her in her bridal attire. He looks so dazed, so..._ wondering _... in that moment that she can barely credit it. He looks... damn near knocked off his feet, and it makes her heart sing. She is marrying the man she's loved for years, the man who is her partner in every way, the man who would lay down his life for her just as she would for him, and nothing,_ nothing _can ever dim the joy of this perfect, crystalline moment_.

"Come back to me."

 _He is twenty-two, in some country inn while they are off on one of their rangings. He is talking and laughing, animated, in good spirits; the ranging has been an easy one, uneventful and problem-free, and if they ride out at dawn they will be home in time for the noonday meal. The inn is large and prosperous, employing no fewer than three pretty young serving girls, all of whom are obviously,_ hopelessly _, besotted with her husband. Jane can hardly contain her amusement as they fall all over themselves - and each_ other _\- to keep his flagon full and make sure, time and again, that there's nothing - nothing_ at all _\- further that he needs. She catches his gaze, a quick sidelong glance, and he quirks one eyebrow at her, the barest hint of a mischievous grin hovering about his lips. Choking on her laughter, Jane manages to say, "do you know, Sir Knight, I rather think those girls are trying to seduce you?" Something darker flashes behind his eyes then, something intimate and suggestive, as he leans in toward her and murmurs, lips moving against her ear and sending little shivers through her, "well for God's sake,_ someone _had better." They have taken a private room for the night, snug and warm up under the eaves, removed from the other guests, with a crackling fire and a soft featherbed. It was to be a much-anticipated luxury after several nights spent in the open, camped by the side of the road; but Jane strongly suspects, as she grabs his hand and pulls him from the table, that they will in fact be getting_ very _little sleep_.

"Come back to me."

 _He is twenty-three, on the night of Lavinia's sixteenth birthday ball. The festivities continue into the early hours of the morning, but that's not where Jane and Gunther are at the moment; they took their leave well before midnight and are back in their chambers, wholly enveloped in each other, moving together in a rhythm they have perfected by now. Jane gasps and shudders as she finds her release, the whole world momentarily shattering into tiny shards of pleasure almost too bright and sharp to be borne, her flushed face buried in his shoulder, groaning his name again and again as she slowly spirals back to earth. His hands had been on her hips, guiding her, helping her along, but now he wraps his arms around her so hard she can barely draw breath, holding her to him fiercely, almost_ desperately _, as if he never plans to let go of her again. "I love you," he says hoarsely, his breath coming choppy and erratic, "_ God _, I love you. Never leave me, Jane. Never." She raises her head, opens her mouth to speak, but decides to bring her lips crashing down on his instead. In this moment, it is a more effective means of communication than any words could be. His hands plunge into her sweat-damp hair and she knows that they are not done for the night; no, they are only just getting started._

"Come _back_ to me."

 _He is twenty-four, and here she gets stuck. Because he_ is _twenty-four. He is twenty-four, and is this where it ends? Their story? His_ life? _He is twenty-four... he's twenty-four, and will he ever be twenty-_ five?

* * *

That was when the sobs took her. It made her whole bruised body ache to cry so hard, but it wasn't something she could control, not something she even _wanted_ to. With her head cushioned on his chest, she sobbed herself to sleep.


	45. Chapter 45

_"Come back. Come back. Please come back."_

It was repeating over and over again, an endless litany, even in her sleep.

 _"Come back to me."_

A plea that went on and on...

 _"Come back."_

But a plea that she no longer had any faith in. Despair was overwhelming her. She was too weak to fight it. Hope was deserting her. She was too weak to _sustain_ it. He wasn't coming back. Not every story had and happen ending, and Gunther... Gunther...

He was lost to her.

 _"You said we would get through this. Damn it, you_ promised _. Now come back."_

He'd been so pale. So still. So... _remote_ , somehow. There, but not there. Not... _present_. He was either dead, or he was dying... in any case, he was unreachable. And she was giving up.

 _"Do not do this, damn you! DO NOT!"_

She would have to will herself awake at some point. It was not in her nature to simply lie down and die, no matter how devastated, how heartsick, how irreparably broken, this ordeal was going to leave her. She would go on. There were other people she cared about, to say nothing of Dragon. There were people - _plenty_ of people - who were relying on her in some way or another. Who were depending on her to be Jane the daughter, Jane the friend, Jane the knight, Jane the defender, Jane the mentor, Jane the dragon-rider. There was work to be done, an oath to uphold.

Justice to be sought.

She would go through that thrice-damned forest with a fine-toothed comb; she would go through it one leaf, one twig, one godforsaken _berry_ at a time, and she would not be satisfied until she knew that nothing - _NOTHING_ \- that walked on two legs was living there any longer.

And any lingering outlaws that she came upon would not have time to beg for mercy.

Actually, maybe that wasn't justice, come to think of it. Maybe it was _vengeance_ that she was after.

She found she didn't really care.

She knew she _should_ care - it was an important distinction, and she really _should_ care - but she didn't.

 _"Come back. Please, Jane,_ please _, come back."_

She would wake up. She would go on. She would be empty; desolate; a hollow shell. But she would keep putting one foot in front of the other. She _would_.

Just not... _yet_. Not now. She couldn't _face_ it right now, she... she...

...wha... my name, did I... did I hear my...?

 _"I love you. Come back to me._ Jane _. Come home."_

There. There, _again_. Her name. Which strongly suggested that she was not, in fact, the one speaking.

But... but if not her... then _who?_

She was rising back toward consciousness now, like it or not. She felt her breath catch, felt her lips part. Dry, they were so dry. She swallowed.

 _"JANE."_

New urgency in the voice. The voice that wasn't hers.

 _"Jane, you are hearing me. I can_ see _that you are hearing me. Please, for_ God's sake _, come back, I need you to come back."_

Her brow knit. What was... what was going _on...?_

 _Warmth_. The blackness all around her was dissolving into grey. She was nearly at the surface now, and... warmth, framing her face. No... _hands_ framing her face. Cradling it.

She blinked her eyes open, her surroundings slowly resolving into focus. And then she blinked _again,_ disbelieving.

"Dreaming," she whispered, barely audible. Because that had to be what was happening. She wasn't seeing what she thought she was seeing... wasn't feeling those hands pressed to her face. She was never going to see him again, never going to _touch_ him, again. He was _gone_ , they had said so, she had _lost_ him, she, she...

"No," Gunther said, his voice gravelly, grating, almost tortured. "No, Jane. Awake. Come back to me now, come all the way back."

* * *

"No," she said, her voice a tormented croak, "no."

This was too unspeakably cruel. It couldn't be borne. Why was her mind _doing_ this to her? She couldn't cope with this, she couldn't handle it. He looked so _real_. Sounded real, _felt_ real. But he was gone.

 _Gone_.

She just kept hearing those words over and over and _over_ again, a ceaseless repeating echo in her mind.

\- _gone he is gone he is gone he is_ -

And she was just beginning to wrap her mind around it. Not to accept it, God no - she'd _never_ accept it, ever, not if she lived to be a hundred, a _thousand,_ not if she outlived _Dragon_. Would never accept it, would never make peace with it, would never get over the awful, breathless hurt of it. But she had been starting to get a handle on it, to force herself to at least _acknowledge_ it, and now.. _now_...

This was a set-back, for sure.

She tried to flinch away from him... but she couldn't even do _that_. There was nowhere to go. She was lying on her back and he was leaning close over her, and how in the hell was _that_ possible? The last thing she remembered, she'd cried herself to sleep lying draped over _his_ prone body... and it felt as if no more than a moment had passed since then.

All the more reason this couldn't possibly be real. Her addled brain, unable to deal with his loss, had conjured this hallucination to put in his stead.

"Go away," she gasped, her voice so wounded that it was barely her own. "You are not real. Go _away!_ "

"Jane -"

"No. No. _Please_." She was begging. This was going to unhinge her. She could _feel_ her sanity slipping.

Notch by notch. Slipping away.

She slammed her eyes shut. If she couldn't escape, she could at least refuse to look. She wouldn't engage. She _couldn't_ engage. It was too much.

Her breathing was piling up. Her thought process was slowing _down_. In fact, it had more or less devolved into a simple repetition of, _no no no no no no no_.

And then...

"Jane," he said, and his voice sounded choked, on the verge of tears, " _breathe._ "

Everything stilled. She inhaled; a deep, shuddery gasp. And opened her eyes.


	46. Chapter 46

She stared up at him for a long, dazed, uncomprehending moment, a million questions, and fragments of questions, ricocheting through her mind.

She was so helplessly, _hopelessly_ disoriented.

She was nearly frantic, her heart suddenly racing, but she couldn't articulate any of what was going on inside; any of the _what, when, why_ and _how_ that she so desperately needed to know.

 _What time is it?_

 _What_ day _is it?_

 _How much time has passed?_

 _How did I get in this position?_

 _With you leaning over me?_

 _Was I not just on top of_ you?

 _I am_ sure _I was just on top of_ you _..._

 _Am I all right?_

 _Are_ you _all right?_

 _Am I dreaming this?_

 _Will I wake up alone?_

 _Are you even_ real?

And that was the crux of it.

Because he _couldn't_ be real. _This_ couldn't be real.

 _Could_ it?

She wanted desperately to believe that it could, but she was afraid. Terrified. If she allowed herself to buy into this and it _wasn't_ real... she couldn't even finish that thought. It was too terrible.

And then he smiled at her, and she knew. She still didn't understand how – she didn't understand any of it. But she knew.

It wasn't that the smile was radiant or beatific or anything of the sort. To the contrary, it was a tired smile – exhausted, really. A fragile, barely-there, cracked-around-the-edges, about-to-fall-to-pieces smile.

An "I'm holding myself together by a thread, for _you_ " sort of smile.

And that was exactly what convinced her.

"Gunther," she breathed.

The smile fell from his face as if, having attained his objective, he couldn't sustain it for even one more second. That was when she realized just how haggard he looked; he was positively ashen. " _Gunther_ ," she said again, managing to get a little more force behind his name this time, and digging deep for the necessary strength and coordination, she levered herself up on one elbow and hooked her other arm around him, pulling him hard against her.

He made a soft little chuff of sound, a surprised "uhmf", and then they were falling back against the mattress together, turning slightly so that neither one of them would have to bear the full weight of the other. Face pressed to his shoulder, feeling the heat of him, the _reality_ of him, she twined her arms around him as tightly as she could, distantly registering that she was starting to shake, and hard.

 _Shock_ , she thought numbly. _I believe I am in shock_.

"Jane," he murmured, but she shook her head against him, hitching in a splintered breath.

"You d... you _died_ , you... you were bleeding, he _stabbed_ you, and... you were so _pale_ , you... your blood was _outside_ of you, it was _everywhere_ , it was all _over_ you, it was all over ME, I could not hold it in, I tried, I... Gunther, I tried..."

"Jane."

"And you would not wake up, Gun...Gunther... oh my God, you would not wake _up_ , I... nothing I could do would... you were GONE! You were gone and I was _useless!_ I could n...nothing, I could do nothing, I – I –"

"Jane!"

But she wasn't registering his voice. She was on the brink of hysteria.

"And y _ou saved me!_ " she cried, anguished; cutting, finally, straight to the heart of it. The deepest source of her agony, her torment. "You saved _me,_ when I was... was... you _did_ something about it, you figured out what needed to be done and you DID it! And then when _you_ were... lying there, bleeding... I did _nothing,_ I could not move, I could not even think, I just... _froze_ and, and, and all I could think of was that I had luh- _lost_ you, and – and –"

"Jane, stop. Jane, _please_. Just stop, stop and br-"

" ** _NO!_** " She practically shrieked the word. "No, _you_ breathe!" Suddenly fierce, surprising both of them, she wrenched herself away, shot up onto her knees, used the flat of one hand to shove him unceremoniously onto his back, and brought her other hand to his face, holding it an inch or so from his lips. "YOU breathe, Gunther Breech, so I know this is real, _you_ breathe so maybe I can believe, because I swear to God, you were dead, you were dead, _you were_ –"

He reached up and caught her by the wrist, holding her hand steady - then deliberately, and very gently, blew out a long, even breath. And she felt it. That small rush of air against her fingers. She felt it, and it was everything. Everything.

Then her face was crumpling, _she_ was crumpling, falling across his chest and sobbing as he wrapped his arms around her and stroked her tangled hair.


	47. Chapter 47

_A/N: Well, this little tale was_ thoroughly _back-burnered when I became so absorbed first in_ Dawn _and then in the story game. But after a gentle reminder (thank you Laree, lol!) I'm back to wrap things up. I anticipate just a couple more chapters to deal with their recovery and return to relative normalcy. Anyone for a smutilogue? ;)_

* * *

"You did save me."

His voice was gravelly, barely there. Little more than a rumble deep in his chest. She felt as much as heard it, lying as she was with her head snugged tight beneath his chin. She'd been staring blankly at the room's stone wall and just… drifting.

She stirred and swallowed now, reeling herself back in… at least enough to manage a single, croaky syllable.

"Huh?"

He cleared his throat. "I said, you saved me. You did. You… brought me back, Jane."

"Wha…what? When? How? I do not –"

"On Dragon," he said, his voice sounding… so far away, somehow. Dreamy. "We were on Dragon, and I was flying away."

"Home," she corrected automatically, as she struggled to process what he was telling her. "We were flying _home_ , and… and how do you even _know_ that? You were… under, you were _deeply_ under, I kept trying to wake you up, but you just… just…"

"I did wake up," he said quietly. "I woke up, and I saw you, and your hair was around me, and you were the most beautiful thing I had _ever_ seen, the most beautiful thing in the world."

Jane blinked, suddenly more alert, because it was _true_ ; in all the chaos that had come after, it had been driven right out of her mind, but it was true. That had happened.

"You… you _said_ that," she whispered, the words coming slowly, as she remembered. How had she ever forgotten in the first place? That one brief moment – it had _shone_ , beacon-like, the only shred of positivity, of hope, in that entire nightmare flight. He'd opened his eyes and they'd been distant and unfocused at first, but then he had seen her, had even smiled.

And he _had_ called her beautiful, although the compliment hadn't been half as meaningful to her as the fact that he'd been speaking at _all_. He could have said _anything_ in that moment and she'd have treasured it.

"It was true," he said simply, "but saying it… took everything I had left. I was done. It was a good-bye, Jane."

The words hit her like a bucket of icy water thrown over her head. She stiffened against him, sucking in a sharp, pained little breath, readjusting herself so she could see him.

" _What?_ " she managed, through lips that suddenly felt numb.

"I… did not…" he broke off, frowned, clearly struggling to find the right words. It was so familiar to her, that brow-knit expression of frustration, and so deeply at odds with the uncharted territory of… of what he had just _said_ to her.

 _I misunderstood_ , she tried to convince herself. _He cannot have meant what I thought he meant_.

But he negated that idea a bare moment later when he continued, "I had nothing left. I just wanted you to know… how I felt about you, what you meant to me, and what I said did not cover it, not even close, but it was the best I could do, and then… maybe _you_ were flying home, Jane, but _I_ was flying away. Or I started to, at least."

"Gunther –" her voice was stricken. Sick.

"It was like I was suddenly above myself; I could _see_ you, and Dragon, and Smithy, and… _me_ , I could see _myself_ , and you were going straight, but _I_ was going…" he broke off and gave his head a slight shake, frowning more deeply than before.

Jane made an inarticulate little sound – distress beyond words – and tightened her arms around him until it _hurt_ , it hurt to be holding him so hard. But she couldn't stop herself; didn't even want to.

"I am not sure _where_ I was going," he said at last. "But it was a different… path, a different trajectory than _you_ were on, I know that much. And then you –" he actually smiled just the tiniest bit, his lips quirking ever so faintly upward. "You kissed me. Hard."

"I... told you to fight... to fight through..." She raised a hand unconsciously, pressing shaking fingertips to her temple as she struggled to remember, to bring that moment back into focus.

"Did you?" Gunther's voice was still unsettlingly distant, musing. "I do not remember that, but I remember the kiss. I _felt_ the _kiss_. It stopped whatever... whatever... had begun to happen. I was back... _in_ myself again, after that."

She pushed herself up until she was leaning over him once more. It was a struggle, but she managed. "You... were... _leaving_ me," she choked out.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Half an hour ago she'd been convinced that he was dead, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise at all... and yet, somehow, it still did.

Well, no, that wasn't exactly right. Surprise wasn't the term. It was a _shock_ , just one more shock to her system, one more on top of so many.

She couldn't keep sustaining these _blows_. She couldn't.

Gunther must have seen something of the panic that was rapidly mounting behind her eyes, because suddenly his _own_ eyes were a lot clearer; his expression worried.

"Hey." He reached up, trying to draw her back down to him, but he didn't have the strength. The most he could do was brush her cheek with his fingertips before his hand fell back to the coverlet. "Jane, I am here. Right here."

"But you... almost... you..."

"I did not, though. Jane, I did _not_. You called me back. You –" in spite of everything, there was that tiny smile again; nearly a grin, for all that it was barely there. "You _kissed_ me _back_ , Jane."

She just stared at him through burning eyes, breathing hard, nearly panting. It was too much, too much to process. She couldn't make her mind work properly, couldn't think what to say, what to do, in light of this.

"Jane," he tried once more, but he was fading; she could see it. She was going to lose him _again_ in a minute, though this time – _please God_ – only to sleep. And that was no bad thing, she supposed, although her thoughts were becoming increasingly fragmented and halting. He _needed_ to sleep, so he could heal. They _both_ did.

She was still at a loss for coping with this, this new information, so breathtakingly hideous in its implications... for even properly absorbing it. But she understood this much at least; that she had to set it aside for the moment. It could be examined later. Right now she needed to rest. So when Gunther said her name again, just her name, his voice breaking on the single syllable – too exhausted to say anything more, too weak to try and reach for her again – she sank back down, partly beside him, partly on _top_ of him. Nestling into his warmth, molding the contours of her body to his.

And then she was falling away, but not before she managed to accomplish one final, small-but-significant act. She caught his chin and tilted his face toward hers, then pressed a lingering kiss to his lips.

Given what he had just revealed to her, she _never_ intended to let him fall asleep without a kiss again.


	48. Chapter 48

Sir Theodore's party arrived back just a few hours later, while Gunther and Jane were still deeply asleep, wrapped in each other's arms. Jane was unaware of any of the attendant commotion, not waking until hours later to find Lavinia, pale and serious, sitting beside the bed and staring at her.

It was an odd sight to wake to, and at first Jane couldn't quite credit it. There was something distinctly unexpected about seeing the princess there, although it took her a moment – blinking the sleep away, brows furrowing in perplexity – to put her finger on just what that was.

Then she remembered. Lavinia wasn't _at_ the castle; or at least... she hadn't _been_. The last time Jane had seen Lavinia had been in the woods, during the thick of the fighting, as Dragon had ( _thank God oh thank GOD_ ) carried her and Cuthbert away to safety.

Jane's eyes widened.

She struggled up onto one elbow, then very carefully and gently extricated herself from beneath Gunther's arm, which had been flung protectively over her stomach. "Princess," she croaked, forcing herself into a sitting position facing the dark-haired teenager, swinging her legs gingerly over the side of the bed. Gunther, still entirely lost to the world, was a solid warmth at her back, and that was a good thing; she _needed_ that anchor because as soon as she was upright the room began – slowly and subtly, but it definitely began – to spin.

"Jane," Lavinia said, and then her face was crumpling, her breath hitching, and a second later the princess was flat-out sobbing. Jane, at a loss for what else to do, folded the weeping girl into her arms. Fighting through her own sense of vertigo, she held Lavinia with all the strength she could muster, stroking her hair as she cried.

Eventually Lavinia was down to gasps and hiccups, her warm and tear-sticky face resting on Jane's shoulder.

"Princess?" Jane said again at length, her own voice still unsteady. "What… what has… is it Cuthbert, is he –"

"No." Lavinia took a deep, shuddery breath. "No, he… is fine, his leg… recovering. No, Jane, it… I… _you!_ I am so sorry… for _you!_ " She dissolved back into tears again, although the storm of sobs had subsided. These were tired tears, and weak. " _You_ should have been on Dragon, not _us_ , you… they caught you because of… of… you and, and, _Gunther_ – it was all my fuh – fuh –"

" _No!_ " Jane wrapped her arms even more tightly around the crying girl. "No, Lavinia, I was off Dragon already, remember? It was a _battle_ , things happen, and I am just _so glad_ you and your brother are safe! I am all right… _Gunther_ will be all right. I promise, I promise." She could only pray, as she spoke the words, that they were true.

"Truly?" Lavinia asked, finally pulling away. "Because the men were talking… the whole way home… and even Sir Theodore seemed… seemed to think…" She looked on the verge of breaking down again.

"Yes, truly," Jane said, trying to project an air of certainty. Moving slowly, gingerly, she scooted a bit to the side, affording the distraught princess an unobstructed view of Gunther. "He is sleeping. It was… touch and go for a while, but… he is strong, Lavinia."

"Strong and not ready to leave _you_ ," the princess whispered, causing sudden hot tears to spring to _Jane's_ eyes. "That is what Sir Theodore said, but he did not sound certain, Jane, not at all –"

"Your majesty." Jane reached out and cupped Lavinia's chin, compelling the princess's dark eyes to meet her own once more. " _Everything will be all right_."

It took a while, but eventually the teenager calmed... as Jane continued to fervently pray that her reassurances were more than mere, empty words.

* * *

More visitors followed, once Lavinia had regained her composure and gone on her way. Cuthbert stopped by for a moment, bandaged and limping but essentially whole, to Jane's profound relief. Pepper popped in briefly to ask if there was anything Jane needed, then vanished only to return with a large bowl of hot broth. It was the first nourishment Jane had taken in… she wasn't even quite sure _how_ long, actually, but a while. It warmed her in the loveliest way. Her parents came, together, and sat with her as she drank it, talking quietly.

Finally came Sir Theodore, looking tired and grave. At Jane's request, he provided a brief accounting of his party's journey home, and the status of the prisoners they had taken. The outlaws were believed to be either killed, captured or routed, her mentor informed her, but the king was not taking that for granted, not this time. Another large party was set to leave in under a week's time, to return and scour the area; to make entirely sure. An outpost would be set up as an added precaution, to be permanently manned for the foreseeable future.

The _real_ purpose for Sir Theodore's visit, though, was of course to check on Jane and Gunther. "Jane," he said softly and with characteristic seriousness, "I need you to be honest with me. While you were held captive, was there any damage done to you of… a more personal nature?"

It took her a moment, brows knitting, to process exactly what he was asking. Then, " _Oh_. I… no, they… no," she stammered, feeling a rush of heat suffuse her cheeks.

"Jane?" He didn't look convinced. "Some of the laces on your clothing were broken."

Jane's face burned hotter. Trust him to have noticed something like that. Her mentor didn't miss much.

" _No_ ," she said again, more forcefully. "No, the… intent was there, but it… _he_ … was interrupted."

"Interrupted how?"

"By me getting my hands loose and cutting his throat."

"Ah." He looked hard at her for a moment longer, then visibly sagged with relief. "Very well, then. And what about Gunther, did he –"

" _He_ ," came a sudden, sleep-hoarse voice, "is awake and can hear you just fine. And assures you that no one made free with _his_ person, either."

"Gunther," Jane breathed, whirling to face him – and then pressing a hand to her head when the room set to spinning again. Sir Theodore leaned forward, his gaze on Gunther intent; searching.

"You have no idea how good it is," the older knight said quietly, "to hear your voice again."

Gunther tried for a smile, although what he produced was far more akin to a grimace. 'I am glad you are back safe as well, Sir."

Sir Theodore took his leave shortly after that. There would need to be a full debriefing at some point, but Jane and Gunther were in no condition at present, and he was exhausted from his own trek home. Jane, sitting on the edge of the bed, scooted closer to her husband once their visitor was gone. She reached down and pressed a hand to the side of his face, absently stroking his stubbly cheek with her thumb.

"Do you think you can eat?" she asked.

He paused for a moment, then gave his head a minute shake. "No. Lie back down. I miss you."

She arched an eyebrow quizzically. "But I am right h–"

"Sitting up is not close enough. I miss you." His eyes were falling shut again. "Jane…"

She gave a soft snort, but did as he asked. "You are a spoilt, demanding creature, do you know that, Gunther Breech?" she said, stretching out beside him on the bed.

"Yes," he breathed, tangling a hand in her hair, and was immediately lost to sleep again.

Not even a moment later, she followed.


	49. Chapter 49

_A/N: A HUGE shout-out to lareepqg, for heavy assistance with the dream sequence. You totally rocked it chica,_ _thank you!_

* * *

 _Nothing. There was nothing around her, nothing at all, for as far as she could see, and that was the first thing that frightened her._

 _She was in the middle of a flat and featureless plain; no variations in the landscape, no way to orient herself. No trees or hills or hazy mountains in the distance, just an endless expanse of tall yellow-green grass that waved slowly in a breeze Jane couldn't feel; a breeze that didn't actually_ exist _._

 _Everywhere she looked it was the same, except… except for right where_ she _was; right where she_ lay _. Here the grass was dead, scorched; and it crackled dryly beneath her as she struggled against her bonds._

 _For she_ was _bound; arms wrenched behind her and secured just as they'd been in the outlaw encampment. Everything about her current situation was different, and yet it was also all the_ same _– and she knew, she KNEW, as her terror mounted higher and then higher still, that Hugh was here now, just as he had been_ then _._

 _She whipped her head back and forth, trying frantically to locate him, to calculate the direction from which his attack would come… but she could not see him, not_ anywhere _, despite her seemingly unobstructed view of her surroundings, stretching to the horizon on every side._

 _Laughter in her ear. A whisper, a taunt, a sharp tug on her hair. But every time she twisted to brace herself for his assault, he was gone – too fast for her to catch. She was helpless, helpless._

 _She was utterly immersed in her panic now; drowning in it._

 _And then suddenly he_ was _there, solidly, inarguably there, squarely on top of her, pinning her down, and his hands were at her throat, cutting off the air to her lungs, choking her, he was choking her, he was_ killing _her. The fat white clouds that dotted the vast bowl of the sky began to scuttle past faster and faster with the ever-increasing tempo of her desperate, terrified heart._

 _She was still trying to twist away, trying to wrench her hands free of her bonds, but it wasn't working,_ nothing _was working, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't_ breathe _…_

 _She was dying and she was all alone except for the monster that was on top of her, inflicting this horror on her, and she wanted to scream for Gunther, where was GUNTHER, but she couldn't. She couldn't and she didn't think he'd come anyway, he wasn't here. He'd abandoned her and she was alone, so alone._

 _Hugh's hands left her neck then, but the pressure did not; she still couldn't breathe and that made no_ sense; _she thrashed against her bonds with all her weight, knowing that unless something gave, unconsciousness had to be minutes – no,_ seconds _– away; but there was nothing she could do, her lungs were on fire, they were_ burning _, and she'd never been so helpless in her life._

 _Darkness should have been closing in on her; she'd almost have welcomed it at this point. But it wasn't happening – everything was in sharp focus,_ perfect _acute clarity, and with every desperate sucking attempt at pulling in air it seemed that she could see_ more _clearly; could differentiate each individual blade of grass, shadows and lines in hard relief, sharp enough to cut._

 _And Hugh was still on top of her, pressing her into the blackened ground, and now he was ripping at her clothes with his hands and his, oh_ God _, his_ teeth _… and when he started to yank at her breeches the dry, scorched earth began to spread outward, away from her, and… and the plain was becoming a_ wasteland _._

She _was becoming a wasteland._

 _No._ NO _._

 _Jane virtually_ launched _herself off the ground, arching her back with every bit of her strength, a final last-ditch attempt to buck him_ off _of her, and it_ worked _, sweet merciful God it truly_ worked _. Hugh was thrown clear and she actually floated there, suspended in the suddenly viscous air for the space of a heartbeat, and then two, and then_ three _– before SLAMMING back to the ground with terrific, bone-jarring force._

 _But her ordeal wasn't over, there was no respite to be had. Because as soon as she hit the ground she was inside the_ tent _, that awful musty tent in the outlaws' camp, and Hugh was back_ again _, pressing her down into the ground and that was so_ unfair! _She was horrified beyond belief, traumatized past her ability to cope because now her clothes were gone, all of them, they were ALL GONE. She was completely vulnerable and Hugh was running his hands over her body and Gunther was shouting,_ screaming _her name in a voice that was breaking with anguish; frantic nearly to the point of madness, and there was nothing she could do to comfort him,_ or _to save herself. NOTHING._

 _Except…_

 _Except that suddenly, somehow, one of her hands was free and there was a dagger clenched in her fist… and without a second's hesitation, without pause for thought or reflection, she brought her arm up in a swift, sure arc and buried the weapon hilt-deep in Hugh's hateful neck._

 _And only then, ONLY THEN, did the_ true _horror actually begin._

 _Because as the blood started to fall, pattering down all over her exposed, naked body, she realized that it wasn't Hugh she'd stabbed at all, it was Gunther oh dear sweet God in heaven no GOD NO IT WAS GUNTHER, it was Gunther, his grey eyes enormous and shocked, not accusing or resentful but just sad, so sad, and NO GUNTHER NO, no no no no NO NO_ NO _–_

 _His blood was raining down on her, it was pouring,_ flooding _, and Hugh was laughing again – she couldn't see him but he was nearby, his mad,_ delighted _laughter echoing around her, coming from everywhere at once. Because this had been his intention all along; she'd played right into his hands, had done his dirty work for him, and now she was choking on Gunther's blood, it was filling her mouth, her nose, and she couldn't breathe couldn't breathe couldn't breathe COULDN'T BREATHE –_

* * *

Someone was screaming. Frantic, breathless cries of unmitigated panic. They went on and on, and Jane experienced a moment of intense empathy for the screamer – her heart _ached_ for whoever was making those awful, wrenching, hopeless, terrified sounds. She wished that she could fold that person into her arms; offer some degree of comfort, of security. But she could not. It was dark and she was alone and she could _not_ … and the screams were not dying down or fading away, in fact the exact _opposite_ was happening. The desperate cries were _gaining_ in volume and immediacy and she became vaguely, distantly aware of hands on her shoulders, hands shaking her, and that was when she realized that _she_ – she was the one who was screaming.

Oh, God. Those wholly panicked, nearly unhinged sounds were coming from _her_. Because Hugh was not dead and Gunther _was_ – Gunther was gone, he was gone because of her, he was gone _at her hand_ , and she'd never get him back – and Hugh had hold of her now and _he'd_ never let her _go_.

He was going to torment her forever, for the rest of her days. He was going to choke her to death and then rape her back to life, over and over, ad infinitum, so no wonder she was screaming, of _course_ she was screaming, her mind was _breaking_ , it was breaking, it was –

"Jane! _Jane!_ Wake up! Jane! Stop, come _back!_ JANE!"

But she could _not_ calm down, could _not_ get hold of herself, could NOT. Hugh was on top of her, holding her down and she couldn't breathe, couldn't _breathe_ , and wasn't sure she even _wanted_ to anymore because Gunther was dead, her husband was _DEAD_ –

"Jane! JANE! _Please!_ " The voice cracked on the word. There was so much anxiety in it, so much love. Whoever was calling to her was _hurting_ for her – so how could it possibly be Hugh? Her eyes flew open at last, wide and disoriented.

Gunther swam into focus above her, looking every bit as frantic as she felt. _His_ eyes were huge and frightened, so dilated in the dim light that they were nearly black. Only the thinnest coronas of silver rimmed the dark pupils.

Panting, shaking, she took in the fact that her hands were pressed with desperate intensity against his shoulders, bracing herself against him, pushing… she'd been pushing… him away…

 _Nightmare. It was a nightmare. It was just a_ dream…

She heaved in a great, shuddering gulp of air; then another, and another. Trying desperately to ground herself. Her eyes left his to skate quickly around the room, taking in her surroundings, realizing that they were home, in the castle, still in Pepper's old room right off the kitchen.

 _No eerie, endless plain of dying grass. No outlaw tent in the woods where the unthinkable had almost happened. Home._

 _Home_.

She fixed her gaze back on Gunther's face. A tiny ribbon of blood, almost black in the dimness, was trickling from his lower lip. Oh God, had she _hit_ him!? There was a cold, sick knot in her stomach as she continued to struggle with her erratic breathing.

She let her hands fall away from his shoulders, then raised one to wipe at the blood with trembling fingertips, eliciting a slight wince from her husband. She _had_ hit him. Hard enough to make him _bleed_.

She was horrified, and the dream was still clinging to her, unwilling to entirely let her go. She could still almost hear Hugh's mad laughter, _feel_ him ripping at her clothes. The panic was still there, _right_ there at the periphery of her mind, subdued but not vanquished, just waiting for an opportunity to flare back up again. To reassert control.

She tried to literally, physically swallow it back; it sounded suspiciously like swallowing a sob.

Felt that way, too.

And suddenly her vision was blurring, her already shallow and rapid breaths were hitching, and she barely had time to gasp out "sorry – I… am so… suh-sorry, Gunther," and then the tears took her. They were wild, hysterical, all-consuming.

"Jane," he said. Just her name, just the once; he almost groaned it. Then he was gathering her into his arms, cradling her as she rode it out, and… and _he_ was still so hurt and weak! He shouldn't have to play nursemaid to _her_ while she wailed like some disconsolate child… and this thought only made her cry harder.

He held her, wordless, through it all.


	50. Chapter 50

_A/N: Shout out to lareepqg for helping with some... flow issues in the dialogue._

* * *

"Bad dreams," he said at length, when she was more or less calm again… well, not so much calm, perhaps, as wholly and utterly spent.

It wasn't a question, just a statement of obvious fact.

She gave her head a single, jerky nod, face buried in his neck, deep shudders continuing to wrack her body.

Still holding her to him, he shifted position, leaning his back against the headboard, Jane snugged up against him. She felt him drop a kiss to the top of her head, which was resting on his shoulder. His breath stirred her hair.

" _God_ , Jane." His voice was rough with emotion.

"Sorry," she whispered again, wretchedly. "Did I hurt you badly?"

"You are worried about _me?_ " The incredulity in his voice was clear. "Holy hell, Jane, you were – I have never seen any– you were _gone_ , there was nothing left of you, you –" his arms tightened around her spasmodically. "Where –" she heard, and felt, him swallow hard. "Where did you go?"

Still pressed against him, she shook her head; her flushed, clammy skin dragging across his in a silent but emphatic negative. She didn't want to even _think_ about the dream, much less articulate it.

"I do not… I cannot…"

"Jane."

"Please Gunther, can we not right n–"

"Can _you_ not just tell me what happened! For God's sake, Jane!"

She was trying to pull herself together but it was hard, so hard. And she was deeply confused about what he was actually asking her for.

"Tell you what… what do you – I had a nightmare."

"Yes, I know. That is not what I meant."

Jane's head still felt cottony, her thought process slow; grinding. She was still trying to work through exactly what he wanted from her when he spoke again, his voice a raw whisper.

"I mean, what _happened?"_

"It was...oh." The dream was finally, mercifully, starting to fade from the forefront of her mind. She grasped at the pieces of it, trying to relate it in a way that would make sense. "I was trapped and you were hu–"

" _No_ , Jane. No." Gunther sounded like he was running low on patience. Patience for _what?_

How hard had she _hit_ him?

He frowned, appearing to search for words. "What Sir Theodore asked you before. Did...he...that is – did –"

Jane shook her head again. Trying to clear it, but also trying to shut this line of inquiry down. "I would really rather discuss this in the morning, but truly, Gunther, I am all right."

"But-"

"Could you _please_ just leave it until morning? I really just need you to hold me ton–"

"But Sir Theodore, he seemed to think..."

Frustration was starting to flare in her. She had _just told him_ she did not want to be having this conversation at present. _Could_ not be having this conversation at present. She was barely holding herself together. She needed quiet support right now, not this… this dogged inquisition! She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to rally.

"You were awake for that conversation, Gunther; you heard my answer."

"Yes, but if there was something –"

"If there was something _what!?_ Are you –" she felt her breath catch in her throat. "Are you implying that I _lied_ to him?" She suddenly felt a whole lot more alert. Alert, and _cold_. And oddly, inexplicably… alone.

" _No_ , Jane! But if there was anything that you… _excluded_ , then –"

She pulled out of his embrace, swiping an arm angrily across her tear-streaked face. "You _are_ implying that I lied to him."

Gunther sighed explosively; raked a hand through his hair. "Jane, that is not –"

"That is _exactly_ what you are doing! And I do not understand how – how you – _what_ you – you were _right there with me_ when it was happening, Gunther! You were next to me, you were _holding my hand!_ You KNOW what went on!"

"I was right there, yes. Restrained, helpless, _useless_ , and facing the _other way!_ I could do nothing to stop it, I could do nothing to _protect_ you, and no, I could _not_ see what was happening, not really! Just flashes at the edge of my vision."

"And you do not think I would have _told_ you if –"

"I do not KNOW! I know when you screamed it ripped me to shreds, and I know that five minutes ago you were screaming _again_ , and this time you just kept shouting "Stop, _stop,_ Gunther make him STOP!" He was panting for breath, his eyes dry, but burning. "And I could not help you then and it _killed_ me, Jane… and I cannot help now either unless you tell me what the _hell_ w–"

It was too much. Too much by half. She yanked up her knees, wrapped her arms tightly around them, and dropped her face into them – creating a protected little space for herself behind the tumbled curtain of her hair. Sucked in several hitching breaths, fighting for mastery. This conversation was escalating out of control; she had to disengage. Had to, _had to_.

"I cannot talk about this right now," she said, her voice muffled, not looking up. "I _cannot_. You are free to think whatever you want, Gunth–"

"What I want."

His voice was quiet, but it was like the crack of a whip, so suddenly cutting, so viciously sharp, that it silenced her mid-word. She raised her head and met his eyes again, and had to make a conscious effort to stop herself from flinching backward. She didn't think she'd ever seen him look this blackly furious in her entire life.

"What… _I want?_ " He was practically crackling with rage; incandescent with it. "What I WANTED was for you to stay here and be safe, because almost losing you _once_ was enough for me. What I wanted was for you to just _one time in your life LISTEN_ to me, do something I asked you to do, something that really mattered, that could have changed things. If you had done – what I goddamn well _wanted_ – then none of this would have happened in the FIRST place!"

She quite suddenly couldn't breathe.

She became aware, as the air seemed to crystalize around her, that her mouth had actually fallen open a little bit – but _still_ she couldn't breathe. There just didn't seem to be any air left in the room. Some of her deep shock must have shown on her face. Something else too, maybe, because Gunther's eyes were widening now, the anger dropping from his expression as abruptly as it had appeared. "Oh God _damn_ it," he said tiredly, raising both his hands to rub fretfully at his temples. "Jane –"

"No." The word was little more than a croak. She swallowed convulsively; tasted bile. She was literally, physically _ill_ with what he had just said to her. Had he _really_ just laid all of it, everything that had happened, at her feet? She cast her mind desperately back, over the course of their disastrous conversation.

Yes. Yes, he really had.

She was lightheaded with the magnitude of his betrayal.

" _Jane_." His expression was suddenly beseeching. "That came out wrong, you know I did n–"

"Oh yes you did," she cut him off. "Yes you did Gunther Breech, you meant every word."

He pressed his eyes briefly shut; opened them again and reached for her. "Jane –"

"NO!" She scooched backward, nearly tumbling off the edge of the bed. "Do _not_ touch me!"

She couldn't be in here anymore; could not spend one more second in his presence. Movements jerky, uncoordinated, she virtually flung herself off the bed; stumbled badly when her weight came down on her injured ankle; very nearly spilled to the floor. Only managed to save herself by grabbing frantically at the footboard.

"JANE!" He swung his _own_ legs over the side of the bed. " _Stop_ , you are going to h–"

"No," she said again, righting herself and backing away. "Stay away from me. Stay... _away_ from me, Gunther." She wanted to spit the words at him, to make them slice and sting the way he could do – _had_ done – to her, but she couldn't get any force behind them. She barely breathed them out. Then her back hit up against the solid wood of the door and her knees nearly buckled _again_ – and Gunther looked so suddenly _lost_ that her resolve almost buckled with them. But his words were still screaming through her mind; they were lodged like shrapnel in her brain, and they were ten times worse than _anything_ Hugh had done to her because they'd come from the person she trusted most in the world –

 _Had_ trusted most in the world. Had.

He'd just laid waste to her defenses in a way Hugh never could have dreamed of.

So she groped behind herself for the doorknob, and then she was stumbling through into the corridor, and pulling it shut behind her, and...

She fled.


	51. Chapter 51

"He loves you, Jane."

She paused in the act of swiping angrily at the freshest spate of tears to escape her. They just kept coming and she hated, _hated_ it. She was _not_ a weepy person. She was the _antithesis_ of a weepy person. The lack of control she felt as the tears continued to force their way free was the worst part. She had… had… sprung a leak and had no idea how to plug it, and it _infuriated_ her.

Which in turn made her cry harder.

And she had expected some sympathy here, some commiseration. What she hadn't expected was… was _this_.

Caught off-guard, she stammered, "wha… what?"

"He _loves_ you. Jane."

 _The big green TRAITOR_.

* * *

It had been hard to get here, too. _Hard_.

After leaving Gunther in Pepper's old chamber, she'd stumbled back to their own rooms… but she'd known even before arriving there that she wasn't going to stay. That was where he would come looking for her, if he was _able_ to come looking for her…

 _If_ he was able.

 _That_ thought had almost sent her running straight back to him. Well… _hobbling_ straight back to him, at any rate.

Infuriating or not, he was still _so hurt_ , so hurt. She'd come a hair's breadth from losing him, and she would still die for him or kill for him or, or…

She still loved him more than anything else in existence. More than the rest of existence put together.

And it he took it into his head to follow her, and did himself some further damage…

Her resolve had wavered badly. But she'd been so deeply wounded by his words, so shocked and hurt and angry. No, she needed space, and surely he had more sense than that in any case.

Surely.

So she'd dressed herself, appalled by how such a simple series of tasks, usually performed with no conscious thought whatsoever, had become a certifiable ordeal. A time-consuming, labor-intensive, _painful_ ordeal. Pulling the softest, the most supple, footwear she owned on over her injured ankle, she'd been brought up short by the realization that silent tears were running down her cheeks.

She'd bitten her lip and taken several deep, shaky breaths, grounding herself as best she could before heading to the stable at a very painful limp.

Saddling a horse had _not_ been fun. But it was the middle of the night; there was no one to ask for assistance, and _walking_ up to Dragon's cave? Well, the odds of that happening were about the same as the odds of her walking to the moon.

She had made it here eventually, though. It had been a test of strength and stubborn will, but she'd made it. She had overbalanced dismounting, gone to one knee with a cry that had been as much from frustration as from pain, and then Dragon had been there, _right_ there, sleep-warm and drowsy – she'd clearly woken him – but alert; and anxious, and concerned, and relieved, and exasperated with her for making the trip in her condition, but over and above everything else, what he'd exuded was just love. Deep and abiding and unconditional love; exactly what she'd come looking for, exactly what she needed right now.

Or so she'd thought.

But it was beginning to appear that perhaps his support wasn't quite so unconditional after all, because now that the whole stammering, hiccupping tale of her latest marital strife had come spilling out of her, it almost sounded as if the overgrown lizard was… was… taking up for _Gunther!?_

She had gone through all of _that_ , to drag herself up here, for _this!?_

"I… but…" she trailed off, swallowed hard, scrabbled for composure. Clearly she hadn't explained well enough. She was rather less than articulate at the moment, and he wasn't understanding her properly. "Dragon, he…"

"He what, Jane?" Dragon's voice was gentle. "Can you tell me exactly what he did that was so terrible?"

"He was not _listening!_ And…"

Dragon's eyebrows went up. "Annnnnd….?" He prompted.

"He did not care I had a nightmare, he did not care I was upset, _all_ he wanted was to know about what… how… what when on when -" she broke off, struggling with her breathing.

Dragon hummed, bringing one claw to his jaw in a thoughtful gesture. "So what you are saying – and correct me if I am wrong here, carrot-top – is that you had a nightmare, scared the living cowbells out of him, slapped him around a little, and then jumped down his throat when he tried to ascertain if you had been physically harmed?"

"That – _what!?_ – that is NOT how it went! He kept pressing me to talk about it and, and, I told him I _did not want to talk about it_ , and… and he said it was all, everything that happened, it was _all my fault!_ " Fresh tears burst forth at the memory.

"Did he?" Dragon leaned close. "Did actually say that? That _all_ of this was somehow because of _you?_ "

"He… he…" she was having such a hard time stringing the words together in any way that made sense. "He said he had wanted… me to stay home and… be safe, and… if I had lis – _listened_ to him… if I had listened just that once, that… Dragon, that was _not fair!_ "

"I can certainly believe that he did not express himself well. _But_ … he has a right to _feel_ that way, Jane. He has a right to want you safe."

The indignity! Why was Dragon _doing_ this? She didn't _need_ him to play the devil's advocate right now. She needed _support_. Unwavering, unswerving, unconditional support. "He _knew_ who he was marrying, Dragon! He knew that I am a _KNIGHT!_ "

"Mmh yes. I daresay he did. Did you also know you were marrying a knight?"

"Wha – wha – of course I did. What has that got to do with –"

"And do you prefer him in danger, or safe?"

She was stunned into silence for a space of seconds. Then, " _Dragon_."

"Well, it seems a fair question, Jane. Although I believe I know the answer already. So I suppose the real question is, how is it unfair for him to want the same thing for _you_ , that you want for him?"

"But I have never tried to stop him from doing his job, from… being who he _is!_ "

"And he tried to stop you."

" _YES_ he tried to stop me! He tried to _order_ me to stay at home!"

"And he _should_ have known better, due to the futility of such a demand, if nothing else. But honestly, Jane, can you really say that you would not prefer _he_ stay out of harm's way?"

"No." It was barely a whisper. "Of _course_ I want him out of harm's way. But I respect him enough that I would not try to force the issue. And… he would not even look at me the entire march. Dragon, it _hurt_."

"So he shut you out then?"

"Yes. Completely. For _days_."

"And when you were screaming in your sleep, and probably frightened him into messing his britches... when you woke, did you do the same?"

She just stared at him, her mouth dropping slightly open. "I –"

Dragon looked at Jane thoughtfully. "I think, that given the unfortunately volatile nature of you short lives, you should consider letting Gunther apologize...or at least watch him trip over himself while he makes a great soggy mess of it."

Unable to actually form words, Jane instead rubbed tiredly at her still steadily-leaking eyes.

"Then," Dragon continued, "Perhaps you should consider apologizing, yourself."

She dragged in a hitching breath, trying to rally some sort of defense, then released it in a shuddering sigh instead.

"He _loves_ you, Jane. And if you recall, you love him too."

"He promised he would never try and tuck me away for safekeeping, and that is exactly what he did. He is just… so unreasonable sometimes!"

"He is your _mate._ And you are his. Of course he wants to protect his family."

" _But_ –" she suddenly sagged, utterly defeated. She was exhausted, her arguments hanging in tatters. She should go and find Gunther, hash this all out. _More_ than should, in fact; she _had_ to. She understood that now. But first – "Druh... Dragon? Can we just... uhm, I think I need to lie down for a while. If that is all right?"

"Of course, Jane." Dragon extended a wing, inviting her to snuggle up beneath, and the clear love and affection in his voice nearly undid her all over again. She pressed herself into his warmth, her head positively swimming with fatigue as she dropped it onto his foreleg, feeling almost as if the floor of his cave was rocking gently beneath her now.

Rocking her to sleep.

She was already tumbling down, down, into deep slumber when, right at the edge of consciousness, she thought she heard Dragon say, "you will be relying on him more than ever now, after all," followed shortly by, "oy Jane? Do you think it will be frizzy-headed, like you?"

This caught her attention; snagged at her, _pulled_ at her to the point where she made a truly valiant effort to drag herself back toward wakefulness... but it wasn't to be. She was too far gone already, and even though there were quite suddenly some rather pressing questions blooming in her mind, sleep closed over her like dark water; its gentle but intractable current carrying her away.


	52. Chapter 52

_Oh, Gunther_.

He had managed to make it back to their rooms after all, and the sight Jane returned to the next morning hurt her heart.

He was asleep on their bed… but not _in_ bed per se. He was lying across the foot of it, on top of the coverlet, head cushioned on one arm and with his face buried in the shift she'd been wearing prior to dressing and making for Dragon's cave.

She'd left it flung carelessly over the footboard, and now he was clutching it the way a toddler might clutch at a security blanket, and oh, it made her ache.

She crossed the room, chewing on her lip, her ankle protesting fiercely with every step, her chest tight and throat oddly constricted. She was torn between needing to ensure that Gunther realized how deeply he'd hurt her, and wanting desperately to simply gather him into her arms and never let him go again. She was still exhausted, despite having slept for several hours snugged up to Dragon's warm bulk; and unsettled by a… a very strange dream she'd had, that she couldn't quite fully remember.

She felt as if Dragon had said something to her in this dream, had told her something _important_ … but the more she tried to drag it into focus, the more it skittered away from her – dancing on the very edges of her consciousness, refusing to be pinned down, brought into the light, examined.

It was maddening.

But it was a riddle for another time. Right now she had to concern herself with –

"Gunther."

His name was little more than an exhalation as she sank down on the edge of the bed. _God_ , she was so tired. Physically _and_ emotionally wrung dry. She didn't know if she had it in her to do this right now, to engage with him and… and weather whatever the outcome might be.

She was running on reserves as it was.

But she had to try. She couldn't just leave things as they were. Couldn't leave Gunther in this state.

He stirred, shifted a bit, and opened his eyes. They settled on her and for a moment he just looked at her, a crease appearing between his brows, seeming more puzzled than anything, as if he was just… _processing_ her, trying to make sense of her presence there.

Then, "Jane," he croaked. "M'sorry."

Her heart gave a little lurch inside her chest. "Gunther –"

He levered himself up on one arm, reached out for her. "I can… cannot… lose you," he said hoarsely. "Jane, it – I would –" he swallowed hard. "It clouded my judgment, I… both before we rode out, and, and last night too. It… I am _sorry_ , Jane."

Her breath hitched, then caught altogether as his fingers brushed her cheek, only to fall away again. He had dark circles under his eyes. He looked even more deeply fatigued than she felt. He looked _ill_.

And small wonder.

He'd almost died. _DIED_. She shuddered at the thought, any last vestiges of anger evaporating. She slid her hand into his, twining their fingers together.

"No, Gunther," she said, her voice nearly choked. " _I_ am sorry. I should not have run away. It was… it was cowardly, and… less… than you deserved, and…" she swallowed convulsively. "I _love_ you, Gunther Breech." Suddenly that seemed like the only important thing to communicate; the only important thing in the world.

"Lie down," he breathed.

She didn't make him ask her twice.

* * *

"Jane. _Jane._ " She fought her way up through layers of sleep like shifting fog, black to charcoal to grey to –

"Jane?"

"Mmh."

A hand splayed beneath her head, cradling it. Another stroking the hair at her temple. Soothing, repetitive. Sleep-warm body pressed against hers, along nearly the whole length of her. Drowsy voice that she loved, dear God, so much, so _much_ …

"Gunther?" She opened her eyes, blinked a few times, and reached to tuck a spill of dark hair behind his ear. A tiny smile had just started to curve her lips, but it faded at the expression on his face. He looked… worried. _Deeply_ worried.

Her brows drew together. "Wh… what…?"

"You were whimpering," he said. "Dreaming again, I think. And by the sound of it, nothing good. You do not remember?"

She gave her head a tiny shake, frowning, trying to clear away the cobwebs of sleep. Tension mounting within her as she sought to pin down any lingering remnants of her dream state, and was unable. There was nothing there for her to grasp. "No, I… oh, _no_. Gunther, are you… I did not…?"

"You did not hit me again, Jane," he said, and now he seemed caught between amusement and exasperation. And still, that deep underlying current of concern was thrumming through him.

"Sorry," she whispered, arrested by the anxiety that was etched across his features.

"Sorry," he echoed. "For _not_ hitting me?"

"Sorry for _worrying_ you, beef brain. I hate that. I hate it."

"Shhh." He dropped a kiss on her forehead. "I _want_ to worry about you. Today, tomorrow, every day, Jane, _every damn day_. As long as I am worrying about you, it means I still _have_ you to worry about."

She felt the tension begin to ebb back out of her body with his calming words and the gentle, almost absent motion of his hand in her hair. It was nearly hypnotic, for a time… but then his fingers caught in a snarl.

Humming soothingly, he picked out the knot and smoothed the offending curl back down.

He brought his hand up to continue, but Jane captured his wrist, pulling it in to place a kiss on his palm. She allowed her lips to linger just a fraction longer than was necessary for such a simple little gesture - and suddenly she found herself wanting more, positively _hungering_ … overtaken by an inarticulate but very real desire to _not lose this contact_. To maintain it and more than that, to _deepen_ it further.

She skated her lips up to his wrist; dropped a second kiss there. Felt him give a small but unmistakable shudder, and raised her eyes to find him watching her intently. _His_ eyes had darkened to the color of old iron, the way they did when he was in the grip of very strong emotion.

Emotion such as anger, or… or desire.

Her lips again began to quirk into a smile as, holding his gaze with her own, she gently scraped her teeth along the tender flesh just below the pad of his thumb. Jane had meant to tease him, but again, she found herself derailed in the act as Gunther decided to take matters into his own hands. He caught her face and his lips found hers, and then she was rising up to meet him, conscious thought wiped from her mind, needing only _more, yes, more_.

She pressed herself even more fully against him, one hand winding through his hair and the other bunching in the fabric on his shoulder as they fused themselves together, kissing almost frantically now, overwhelmed by their mutual _relief_ to be alive, and together, and safe, and home.

They had come so _close_ to losing all of this, to losing each _other_ \- so terrifyingly close.

And so now she couldn't get him close _enough;_ she shifted beneath him, tangling their legs together, running one of hers up the side of his body, hooking it over his hips, pulling him against her even harder.

He broke the kiss with a shuddery groan, dragging his lips along the edge of her jaw, then down her throat to nuzzle at the little hollow just above her collarbone.

"Guhn… Gunther…" her voice was half whimper, half gasp. She insinuated her other leg _between_ his, feeling her flush of anticipation deepen as she registered his… _obvious_ state of readiness.

Her head positively swimming with her own arousal, she hooked her fingers into his waistband, tracing the smooth skin there - but Gunther had other ideas. He made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a growl, and shifted himself more fully over her, pressing her down, into the bed. He kissed his way back up her neck, his lips on her chin, on the corner of her mouth, and then capturing hers again as he braced himself over her on one arm, his other hand moving to cup the swell of her breast, causing her to arch against him, nearly overcome by sensation.

They were utterly lost in each other, in the moment. Trembling under her touch as she trailed her fingers along the side of his body, Gunther hooked one hand under her hip, palm hot against her skin, and rolled onto his back, taking her with him.

Suddenly finding herself in the dominant position, she straddled his hips and pressed herself close over him, her wild hair curtaining them both as she moved to reclaim his lips with her own. His hands were moving restlessly, _hungrily_ , tracing patterns all over her body; they were everywhere, they were shaking... _shaking?_

 _Why was Gunther shaking?_

Something wasn't right.

She drew back and sucked in a deep breath, forcing herself to think critically - think through the panting, swirling haze that had overtaken her - and to look, _really look_ , at her husband.

What she saw had the quelling effect of a rather large quantity of cold water.

Oh, God, _Gunther_. What were they _doing!?_

He was as white as a sheet, perspiration beading his forehead. He was in no condition for this. Heaven above, how self-centered could she _be?_

" _Maggots_ ," she whispered unsteadily, starting to disengage. Gunther's eyes narrowed and abruptly _both_ his hands were firmly on her hips, holding her in place, against him. It was patently obvious that, his condition notwithstanding, _he_ did not want to stop what they'd begun.

Well, that was just too bad.

"Gunther," she panted, "stop. We have… have to… _stop._ "

" _Why!?_ " His voice managed, somehow, to be both husky and plaintive all at once. It was a bizarre combination that almost set her laughing in spite of everything. She clamped down on the impulse. That would not be a good idea.

"We cannot. We…" God, her head was still spinning. She was reasserting control but it was hard, hard.

"Jane...?" Gunther's fingers tightened on her hips, making her squirm.

No. _No_. They were quite done with this little... _exercise_ for the moment. Gunther was injured, and needed - Jane shook her head to clear her thoughts a bit - needed _rest_. Time to recover.

Sustenance.

It would not do, however, to phrase it like that. " _I_ cannot. I… my… my ankle."

He stared hard at her, clearly skeptical. Well, at least that meant he was also returning to a state bordering rationality. He raised an interrogative eyebrow. "This is somehow offending your… _ankle_."

"Um. Yes. It is sore, and …" Jane swallowed, caught. "Oh, fine. I do not want to hurt _you_."

Gunther hissed a breath in through his teeth, clearly ready to argue the point, and rather heatedly, by the look of it. But Jane's mind was absolutely made up.

She raised her hand, forestalling whatever rebuttal Gunther might be preparing. "Just… think of it as a postponement, all right? For the present, perhaps I should go and get us both something to eat. You _must_ be hungry? I am _famished_." Even as she said it, she realized how completely it was true.

Gunther's stomach growled in response.

After that, he really couldn't rally much of an argument. Jane had won. Still, she pressed a lingering kiss to his lips even as she disentangled herself from his grasp... a consolation prize, a promise for later. Then, with a firm admonishment for him to stay in bed, she headed to the kitchens. They'd slept most of the day away; Pepper would be preparing supper by now, and she and Gunther _both_ were in urgent need of solid, hot food.


End file.
